Rescuing Her
by xReaderx
Summary: How can it be the only thing that matters anymore is keeping someone who can't die...alive? Set after "The Fifth Stage." SylarxClaire.
1. Anticipation

**Author shenanigans: So here I am again with more of the forbidden Sylaire junk. I'm a sucker. Sue me. Since my other story I tried FAILED (by my standards), I wanted to try my hand again at the multi-chaptered stuff. This is another trial thing. If I don't get any hits or reviews, I'm going to take it down, so please review so I know to bother continuing. I'm a review junkie :]**

**This will become AU if I continue it as I'm starting from after "The Fifth Stage." This will focus mostly on Claire/Sylar's exploits, so "Don't be a hater! Be a calculator!"**

**Diclaimer: I don't own Heroes because if I did...well, I'd put myself in with some awesome super powers, and nobody wants me all powerful.**

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_Summary: How can it be the only thing that matters anymore is keeping someone who can't die...alive?_

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_**Rescuing Her**_

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_Chapter 1. Anticipation_

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Claire knew that scent. It was as familiar to her as the smell of her mother's cooking, always permeating her senses even in times of complete isolation.

Such as now.

What woke her wasn't the blistering heat pouring into her tent. It wasn't even the guttural cries for help that startled her from darkness.

It was the metallic tinge of blood in the air assaulting her nostrils that threw her into awareness, and after registering the sounds of screams, she sprung into action.

Wearing only what a carnies would have in their closets, she burst from the flaps of her tent in a bohemian skirt and tank top, drenched in sweat as she had been simmering in a microwave for a good amount of time, unable to feel the sensations on her skin. She scanned the area surrounding her, finding disorder and only blurs of tanned skin turned ashen and brilliant streaks of burning light clouding her vision. She was briefly able to register the tattoo lady—Lydia—clutching the hand of a girl, dragging her towards…where were they going? Everywhere Claire looked there was a wall of fire or burning stripes of tents.

She didn't know where to direct her attention. Everyone needed rescuing.

She finally saw Doyle struggling to salvage carnival tools from one of the burning tents. His round face was red from exertion, and his skin glistened with all of the glowing heat. She opened her mouth to shout to him as he turned to run back inside for another armload of items, but just as he did, she heard a thunderous crack. Before she could blink, the wooden framework of the tent collapsed inward, burying Doyle beneath the flames.

"No!" Her screams were in vain, but she sprinted to his grave despite this.

However, as the flurries of light and smoke dissipated, she saw two figures that had been behind the tent, apparently struck in a battle with one another, though while one stood tall and erect, the other was crouched over, beaten. Claire couldn't recognize their faces. She continued her path towards them, her bare feet unbothered by the burning remains below.

Then, she heard his pleas.

"Go away, Claire! Run away!"

Her brow furrowed, a bead of sweat sliding down her nose, and she stopped in her tracks, flames nearly engulfing her.

"Samuel?" she yelled, coughing as her lungs were tickled. "Samuel? Which one are you?"

He seemed to ignore her, wherever he was, yelling at her to run again, so she ignored him, taking several steps out to the clearing.

She wished she hadn't.

Samuel was on his knees, hunched over clutching something in his hands. His forehead had a thick red line running across it, and Claire shuddered, recalling that feeling. That's when her eyes finally trailed to the man who'd been chasing her before he'd even known it, the man who'd had the disgrace of killing her family…her own personal Boogeyman.

He expressed his feral smile, the cascading walls of fire in his background all too suiting.

Her mouth hung open stupidly. "Sy…Sy…Sylar…"

The smile grew to a whole new level of evil as he lifted a single finger, carelessly flicking it and successfully slitting Samuel's throat, blood spurting so grotesquely, Claire cried.

"Hello, Claire…" He tilted his head to the side.

And, then he was behind her, hands wrapping affectionately around her shoulders, one sliding to cup her neck. She dared not move, but her body tremulously disobeyed and shook violently as she suppressed her urge to scream.

"Miss me?"

She closed her eyes, grimacing while tears slid down her cheeks, and he kissed the top of her singed hair.

"Claire? Claire! CLAIRE!"

Sylar!

Panic racked her system as she twisted and turned in the man's grasp, bucking and kicking to try and break free. He was in front of her now. Okay. Ready—curl fist…and…PUNCH! She threw her fist forward with all of her might, and it made pristine contact with his nose, throwing him off balance as he fell backward.

Yes! Take that, you sadistic bastard!

"Damn it, Claire! I'm not Sylar!"

…Oh.

That's when Claire realized her eyes were clenched tightly shut, her nails biting into her fists as she sat up, her sleeping blanket tangled at her ankles. It was a dream, or rather nightmare. Thank God. Claire didn't notice she was panting, and her heart was beating more than a mile a minute. Good Lord, did they really let her drink that much wine last night?

Slowly, she pried her eyes open greeted to the sight of Doyle holding his injured nose and scowling at her. He scolded, "I hope he looks worse than this in your head because you put up a good fight." He drew his hands away, and she saw the flowing blood. "I almost had to control you myself, you were waggling around so much."

Claire cringed. "I'm so sorry, Doyle," she replied sincerely, reaching forward to offer a helping hand but having it quickly shoved away.

"No, no, no. No more help from you." He pinched the bridge of his nose painfully. "Sunday brunch is ready whenever you're done killing people in your dreams."

He quickly withdrew from the tent, leaving Claire alone to ponder.

The sun shone brightly through the holes in the fabric of the tent, illuminating the beautiful hanging stained glass chime in the center. Pillows of brilliant hues surrounded her, and Claire imagined she looked like a gypsy of sorts, hair no longer brushed and clothing dirty. She would have smiled despite herself, but the haunting touch of Sylar still lingered fresh in her mind. How long had it been now? How many months since she watched his body fade to ashes?

Not enough, apparently.

She rolled onto her side, hugging a smaller pillow to her chest. She hated him that much more for making her scared, for making her fear his return. No…much more than fear. Anticipate. God, her subconscious was preparing her for his reappearance into her life, not at all overdue. Her mind was convinced that he was still out there somehow.

How come she'd never thought of that before? Claire sighed. She guessed she was too busy trying to keep her lesbian best friend alive from some crazed sorority sister who was set on killing her. Speaking of which, Gretchen would be quite displeased with Claire for staying an extra week at the carnival she said she'd only spend a weekend at. Sure, Gretchen understood then, but Claire hadn't given a word to her since she left. No phone calls, e-mails, nada. She would be one unhappy lesbian best friend whenever Claire decided to return.

If she decided to return, particularly with her brain trying to tell her something was up with her Psychopath Radar.

Maybe she was a psychopath magnet, too. After all, Doyle had within a week become one of her best and most helpful friends, even though he still had a tendency to call her Barbie and sometimes make her do flips if she argued too harshly with him. Why not let Sylar join the party, too? Maybe him and Doyle could be chess buddies or something.

The mental joke still made Claire shudder. No. Never would he ever be something close to a familial constant in her life—only the bad guy that she had to kill occasionally.

Unless he really was as dead as she hoped he was.

Claire shook her head, sitting up to crawl out of her tent and into the harsh sunlight. Enough of that nonsense, she told herself. Sylar is dead and always will be. No ifs, ands, or buts about it.

Still, as Claire followed the now familiar path to the dining table in the center of their festivities, she couldn't help but to wonder…

What if I'm more like my grandmother than I thought?


	2. Frustration

**Author shenanigans: Yay! You guys like it :D Thank you for reviewing, alerting, favorite-ing, etc. I was going to wait to post this, but I got all I excited from nice reviews that I went ahead and wrote it and now wish to post it. Unfortunately, this isn't all focused on Sylaire as I do have to mention other people. But fear not! I'll get there. **

**Reviews=happy writer=more writing. So please, if you like, review. I'm always up for helpful criticism, suggestions, and whatnot. **

**My disclaimer is in the first chapter, and I feel no need to expand on that every single chapter. Thanks!**

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_Chapter 2. Frustration_

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Sylar had to commend himself; he did indeed have some skill.

First Matt Parkman, and now Peter Petrelli.

(Nathan, too, if you counted minds without bodies. Besides himself, he didn't.)

He corrupted them from the inside out, turned them from noble heroes to vengeful villains. He didn't kick them off their high horses; he damn near broke the horses' legs off. That, mind you, is a _task_ when you're body isn't your own, and your soul is fractured among multiple personalities.

He had to admit, the fact that he was inside Parkman's head did give him the upper hand; however, he was only in Parkman's head because the ex-cop decided to rip him from existence and replace him with the Senator of all people. The Senator! The thought made his skin crawl.

Yet, Sylar smiled enchantingly to middle-aged, redhead Judy at the nurse's station of an unknown Texas hospital because he was quite the master of disguise. He was himself, not changing his DNA because he had had enough of body jumping to last a lifetime, thank you, but he was so leisurely suave, he bet he could make anything with estrogen bend to his will. Even Claire Bennett wouldn't stand a chance.

As Judy batted her overly mascara-ed eyelashes and pointed down the empty hall, he winked, and he was sure she was fanning her red-hot face as he turned to saunter in that direction. Sylar hadn't thought about the cheerleader for what felt like years, probably due to the fact that he couldn't think at all as he was too focused on finding his own body. When was the last time he saw her? The hotel room? Had it been that long?

He smirked to himself. That was far _too_ long. Everyone, particularly the cheerleader, needed a daily dose of Sylar mayhem. If they didn't receive it, they'd become too pompous, too proud of the extermination of a quite powerful roach—one that would live through a nuclear holocaust, by the way.

Unlike dear old brother Pete.

It made him chuckle inside every time he heard Nathan's voice in his memory…almost as much as it made him cringe since the words came from his mouth.

_Tell Mom I love her…Take care of Claire…_

So cliché. Do all feeble men die so…foolishly?

_You've always been everything that's good in the world, Pete._

A swell of pride erupted in his chest at that thought. Good, ol' Pete. Fight the good fight, alright. Was there such a thing as a _good_ fight? Whatever it was, it bled out of him as the conscious was beaten out of Sylar while Peter crucified him with a nail gun. Even though Peter won that small, insignificant battle, Sylar had dragged him to his level—a much more satisfying victory in the end.

Sylar's internal laughter bubbled forth as he found the door he was looking for. His smile was irrepressible as his fingers wrapped around the cold metal handle and twisted it open.

Matt Parkman stared with darkened eyes out of a window from where he lay in his bed, body slump and defeated. Sylar's eye twitched as he observed the man, looking for some recognition to register and for a snarky comment about how evil he was and how he obviously didn't understand the consequences of his actions to play from his lips, but there was none. No movement. His eyes didn't even bother to glance at him, but Sylar could sense Parkman knew he was there.

Disappointment sank Sylar's shoulders. This wouldn't be any fun if there was no fight.

"Oh, Mattie," he teased with a sigh. "Look what they've done to you."

It was unfair, low, and a dishonorable thing, but hey, Sylar had done worse than scalp a man so drugged up, he couldn't even take a piss without falling in the toilet.

_I got a feelin' the world ain't seen nothing yet. _

He lifted his lethal finger and with the force of a saw drew an oozing red line across Matt Parkman's forehead.

Nathan was right about one thing.

The world ain't seen nothing yet.

* * *

_You can do anything, Pete. Anything. Remember that. _

_I love you._

* * *

"What do you mean you don't know where she is?"

Peter was having trouble with three things. One was not crushing his cell phone, as he had run into a patient with an uncanny ability to lift a thousand pounds with ease only a few hours before. Two was keeping an eye on Emma as she was stitching up the end of a suture on a cadaver and constantly nodding back to him with insecurity. And three was barely containing the urge to throw a tantrum seeing as how his brother had "committed suicide" a week ago, a sociopathic serial killer with a hit list was on the loose, and the daughter of said deceased brother was nowhere to be found as she had slipped out under her guardian's distracted nose, both of whom were probably on said hit list.

Peter had just about had it.

"Gretchen says she stole the compass and ran off to the carnival." Noah sighed in frustration on the other end of the line. Oh, he didn't even know the half of it. "Seeing as how it's a moving carnival, it will be somewhat difficult to find."

Peter released a long, deep breath, one that drew Emma's attention away from her task and towards her estranged friend. Walking to him, she took his hand in hers, rubbing gentle circles with her thumbs. He lifted his eyes from the ground, to the gesture, to her face, and he gave a crooked, half-hearted smile. She returned the favor and continued massaging his hand.

"Well, we'll just have to find a compass then, won't we?" he asserted, diverting his eyes away from Emma's.

Noah agreed, used one of his terrible one-liners, and told Peter he'd meet him at Claire's dorm to see if Gretchen possibly had the compass and was lying to protect Claire.

He snapped the phone shut, letting the device drop to the floor lest he be tempted to smash it into the wall.

Emma grabbed this hand, too, and held them both in hers, staring at his face until he chose to finally meet her gaze. "What's wrong?" she asked in her curled words, the language of the deaf.

He grinned, the entity of falsehood. "It's nothing," he claimed. "Just…my niece is in some trouble."

She tilted her head, pausing for a moment to look at their hands, a blush painting her cheeks before she released him and turned to the room of dead bodies. "What kind of trouble?"

Her shyness chipped at his anger, making him chuckle. He stepped next to her, making sure his lips were in her eyesight. "The running away kind."

"Ah," she murmured, nodding as she busied herself with picking up her supplies. Peter observed her quietly; she wore her white doctor's coat and her hair was piled on her head in a messy bun. Her hazel eyes darted from motion to motion, never focusing on one object. She really was a beautiful woman, and if Peter had any sense, he'd have kissed her right there.

Unfortunately, the only sense he had was on how to stop an exploding man. And even that didn't quite go swimmingly.

"I need to find her." His voice was a deep vibration next to Emma, and she saw the colors spill before her in waves. It was strange; his color was always a deep, dark, electric blue no matter what his tone was. With everyone else, as their voices changed, their colors changed. With Peter, it was always blue.

She turned to him, obviously having not heard what he said, and he repeated himself for her to read his lips.

"I don't know how long I'll be gone," he added, receiving a sullen expression from the woman. He offered a sad smile, reaching out his hand to stroke stray hairs from her face. She remained silent and watched as he leaned forward and planted a chaste kiss on her cheek before whirling away towards the door, only stopping to pick up his bag.

"Wait!" Emma shouted suddenly, stopping Peter in his tracks.

He turned where he stood and met her eyes, which were excited from an acknowledged epiphany.

"Did you say something about finding a compass?" She spoke and signed with her hands at the same time.

He quirked an eyebrow.

"Yeah?"

She grinned, ear to ear.

"I think I have one."


	3. Decision

**Author shenanigans: Oh Em Gee! Thank you guys so much for reviews, alerts, favorites, etc. I'm sooo excited =] I'm suddenly bubbling with ideas for this story, and I can't wait to get to writing and see what you guys have to say. And by the way, the earth may be standing still because I am posting the third chapter within a WEEK of posting the first! Holy crap. Seriously. I NEVER do that. It's thanks to your guys' reviews!**

**Okay, but honestly, I don't like the last half of this chapter very much because I was really just trying to get the story moving along. And I don't know if the entire thing is too long, short, thin, fat and so on, so I'd like to hear back from anyone on that front as this chapter is significantly longer than the others. Also let me know about characterization, as I feel as though I fell off of it already. **

**Okay...that's it! **

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_Chapter 3. Decision_

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"You did not seriously make the boy pick and eat his own boogers in front of his girlfriend, did you?"

"I did."

Laughter among the table.

"Why would you do something like that?"

Doyle shrugged good-naturedly.

"He was a punk; the girl deserved better," he answered with a shrug. "I just thought I wouldn't postpone their breakup."

"Genius!"

"Oh my goodness…"

"Really, Eric?"

"Claire, could you pass the syrup?"

…She didn't respond for a moment, her eyes lost in the sea of scrambled eggs on her plate.

"Claire? Claiiiirrreee?"

Doyle tapped her arm, and she finally glanced up to see that every pair of eyes at the long dining table was suddenly on her. She gulped, wondering what she'd missed or if she had accidentally generated a third arm, until Samuel's request filtered through her mind.

"Oh…oh!" Claire shook her head, laughing nervously as she reached forward and grabbed the bottle of syrup, passing it in Samuel's direction along the line of fellow carnies. It took a moment, but most returned to the general, heartwarming, family conversations at Doyle's prompt while Samuel's dark eyes lingered over Claire. She attempted to give a reassuring smile, and he grinned kindly in return before receiving his syrup and attending to his pancakes.

Claire released a heavy sigh, picking up her fork to pick absentmindedly at her food.

* * *

"Penny for your thoughts?"

The sound of Samuel's gravelly voice startled Claire out of her reverie as much as it tensed her body for battle. She was gripping the yellow cushion seat of the Ferris wheel box for several seconds before she consoled her adrenaline and uncurled her fists, smiling halfheartedly at the man.

He narrowed his eyes at her, glancing around the empty carnival grounds. It was a Sunday; no carnival games today, only a day of rest and respite. However, the point he was trying to make became evident as he added, "No one's around but me, Claire. You don't have to put up a grin, no matter how pretty it is."

Her face fell flat, mostly with relief. "Thank you," she replied, shoulders slumped and tired.

He cocked his head to the side in curiosity. "Mind if I join you?"

Claire looked to him and shook her head. "Your carnival."

He chuckled, taking a seat next to her in the box making it rock slightly. He stretched his arms over the back as if it were the most relaxing moment of his day, and he released a long breath, reveling in the rare ghost town of a carnival ground.

"I've notice you like to come sit here and think," he commented quietly.

She nodded. "Yeah." Her thumbs twiddled without thought. "I never really liked Ferris wheels as a kid but…" She tilted her head back, observing the blue sky between all the white metal work and darkened lights. "I don't know…When it's not moving, it's…"

"Peaceful," he filled in, nodding in understanding.

"Yeah," she agreed.

Another pleasant silence enveloped them; they could hear birds chirping in the nearby woods as noon drew closer and closer.

Claire turned her body towards Samuel as a question brewed on her lips. "Samuel…did you…" She paused. "Do you have anything…or anyone…outside the carnival?" Her eyes fell to the ground. "What I mean is…isn't there anything that you wanted that you couldn't get here?"

He didn't reply for several minutes, and Claire returned to meet his steady gaze on her face. She felt like those dark eyes could burn you—put a hole right through your head—if you stared long enough. It was intimidating but at the same time admirable…respectable. It reminded her of Noah.

"We all have things we wanted outside of here, Claire," he explained steadily, never blinking. "We had things we pursued, things we failed, people we loved…" Samuel surprised her by chortling hollowly as a thought occurred to him. He leaned in as though he was going to tell her a secret, so she, too, leaned forward. "The problem is, Claire, the things we want…don't want us back."

She nodded. "Thus Cirque de Freaks."

Samuel grinned, reclining back once more to utter a laugh. "Yes, that's the idea."

He watched her as she took this in, mulling slowly over the information. He had her so close to deciding, so close to picking his side. He was reeling her in. Closer and yet…

Claire sighed, scratching absently at her nose as she rested her head in her hands, elbows on her knees.

"Isn't there a way?"

He arched an eyebrow, feigning confusion.

"A way for what?"

Her brow creased as a sudden wave of melancholy crashed over her body. "A way for us to just be okay out there…" She sat up, gesturing with her hands to the 'out there.' "There's got to be a way for them to accept us." Her nostrils burned as tears built in the corners of her eyes.

Samuel frowned, scooting in and pulling Claire into a warm, fatherly hug that she openly returned, a few tears spilling over the edge. He cooed to her softly, whispering things that she didn't understand. She mused on how strange it was that when this man first showed up, she didn't even think to trust him. Who would have thought she'd be sitting on a Ferris wheel, crying into his shoulder because of the very thing she'd been afraid of trusting all along?

Her ability. Her uniqueness.

Herself.

After a few deep, steadying breaths, Claire was calm once more, but she remained snuggled into Samuel's shoulder while he gently stroked her hair, just like Noah used to when she was little.

"Claire, they won't accept what we are," he murmured, staring blankly at the colorful tents before them. "They can't understand what they haven't felt or done." He sighed. "We aren't safe among them…and they aren't safe among us."

Claire clamped her eyes shut as the image of Sylar's smirking face flashed through her mind.

This went unnoted, though, as Samuel continued, his voice taking on a strange tone Claire hadn't heard.

"One day, though…" he claimed. "One day, we'll be free to walk the world as we please, unafraid of one another, all loved or in love. No pain, no power. Just…us."

Claire smiled.

"That sounds wonderful."

Samuel grinned. He had caught her. Finally.

"So, if you think you might be staying a while, what do you say we find you an act?"

"…"

"…Claire?"

She sniffled, happy.

"I'd love that."

* * *

Peter and Emma had never been on a date. Never held hands. Never even really looked at each other _that_ way yet.

And, still, somehow Peter found himself pressing Emma up against her apartment wall, claiming her mouth with his own and feeling wonderful things he hadn't felt in a while.

It was like God saying, _Here you go, Pete! This is for your dead brother and that psychopath killer! Sorry it took so long!_

Whatever. He'd take it.

Her hands were entangled in his hair and his arms were wrapped possessively around her waist as they finally pulled apart for air, both breathing heavily with wild eyes.

"…Wow…" Emma panted, eyes wide, a shocked expression on her innocent face.

Peter chuckled, leaning his forehead against hers. "Yeah…" he added. "Wow."

She smiled, feeling the best she'd felt since…well, since before her nephew died. Distracted, she pushed the thought away, but it still grounded her back to reality. They had left the hospital to find the compass, but upon entering Emma's apartment, discussing her cello playing and the giant crack in the wall between the windows, somehow he had cornered her and…

"Aren't we supposed to be rescuing your niece?"

Peter nodded, untangling himself from her body. "Yeah. Right. Compass. Claire."

Emma couldn't wipe the grin off her face as she watched him readjust his mussed hair and disheveled clothing. Tempted to throw her arms around him and kiss him all over again, she quickly turned and walked to her bureau, opening up a side drawer and pulling out the infamous small, bronze compass, holding it in her palm as the dial began to swirl.

"A strange man gave it to me," she explained, turning back to Peter and presenting it to him; he took the item and studied it intently. The arrow continued to swirl, but he looked at her as she began to speak and sign to him; he really needed to learn sign language. "He said that at this place, people would accept me. They would like my ability…" She smiled sadly. "He said they'd even like my disability." Her gaze fell to the floor, a weight settling in her chest.

Peter didn't like the sound of that. He stepped closer to her, capturing her chin in his free hand. "Hey…there's no such thing as a disability," he admonished, "just…obstacles."

She rolled her eyes about to comment when he placed another gentle kiss on her lips, one that made her smile all over again.

As he pulled away, he whispered, "I'll be back soon." And, he gave one last quick kiss before heading to the door.

"But, I want to come!"

He stopped, turning slowly to look at her.

"Emma…this is really dangerous."

She arched an eyebrow, signing something that he didn't understand.

"What?"

She sighed in exasperation. "Dangerous my ass."

Peter stood open mouthed, eyebrows arched for a moment, surprise taking over as Emma smirked, brushing past him and opening the door only pausing to glance back at him.

"Well, are you coming?"

He shook his head, laughing, and followed her out.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world."

* * *

Sylar was a man of logic. This was obvious.

He made plans without emotion because emotions make you sloppy, careless. He wasn't careless.

He was precise, cunning, exact. He had every possibility laid out down to the last escape car because without it, the unthinkable could occur.

Sylar was always calculating. Quiet. Analytical.

A predator unaffected by the feelings of the prey or his own volitions. Only the ache of hunger fueled him constantly. Not love, hate, or sadness. Pure hunger and lust for power.

So why was he suddenly angry enough to kill?

This question bothered him terribly as he observed passersby from the safety of a police car (with dead officer in back and clean uniform on himself) on classic college campus. Noah Bennett stepped out of his own car across the street and headed towards the girls' dorm. God, the mere sight of the man made him grip the steering wheel tightly while his blood boiled. If only he could tear out of the car that moment and slice his head clean off…

No. No, that wasn't the plan. The plan was to see what old Papa Bennett was up to and maybe if Claire was around to mess with. Maybe if she was, he'd tear her scalp off and poke her brain so Noah could watch. Yeah, that sounded good: her screams for help, his look of revulsion and desperation, the clean satisfaction of having his fury absolved…

Ha. So much for no emotions.

Sylar closed his eyes and took a deep breath. No, he'd wait. He'd learn, observe, and wait.

However, in the course of that rigorous plan, the sun grew long in the sky, and the man didn't appear for a good twenty minutes, which seemed like centuries to Sylar, so he gradually drifted off to sleep.

It was an hour or so later when he was jolted awake by the sound of rowdy frat boys slamming on his windows and running away yelling, half drunk. He growled, tempted to set them on fire. He was quickly distracted, though, as Noah was walking out of the dorm and towards his car with two more people, one recognized and the other not.

Oh, look! Good ol' Pete! Of course he was in league with Glasses himself.

Raging fury coursed through his veins, warming him down to his toes.

Sylar shook his head. How could years of meticulous mental training go down the tube so quickly? Sure, he'd been absent a little while, and he had every right to have the burning rage of a thousand hells, but the thing that gave him the power over others was that he_ didn't_ . He took control of his anger and channeled it towards the ultimate goal rather than the little ones. Maybe Nathan had taken deeper root than what he thought.

He ignored the idea and instead focused his supersonic ears onto their conversation.

"…says she doesn't think she's coming back."

Peter seemed annoyed. "Yeah, well, that'll change once she finds out her dad's dead, and her nightmare is on the loose."

Noah glowered, feeling the accusation as he spoke. "It was a quick solution; we thought it would work."

Peter scoffed. "Obviously, it didn't." He came dangerously close to Noah's face. "And, I had to watch my brother kill himself because of it."

The unknown woman reached out and touched his arm gently, squeezing it.

Noah narrowed his eyes behind his horn-rimmed glasses. "I'm sorry about Nathan; I really am." He paused, taking a moment to let Peter understand. "But, right now isn't the time to point fingers. We need to get to Claire and get her to safety before we look for him. Is Angela gone?"

Peter nodded. "Out of the country."

Noah nodded in return. "Good."

Other mindless chatter about how they would take him down…worry about Claire…blah blah blah. To Sylar, it was mundane since he was going to kill all of them anyway. What difference did it make if they got to Claire first?

Well, they would all be together. That's one.

And, he could make Claire watch as she murdered her heroes. That's two.

The idea became ever more delectable the more Sylar thought about it.

As the cars of his adversaries revved up their engines, he started his own, careful to stay a steady distance behind them as they pulled out of the campus lot.

Just like the engines, his hunger roared to life.


	4. Exhaustion

**Author shenanigans: Sorry about the forever update! I really am. I was doing so well...But, I had finals all week, and then Christmas this week. So...Merry Christmas! Or Hanukkah, Kwanzaa...whatever way you roll. So I actually wanted to go back to making short chapters since the one chapter that's long wasn't very good, but this just turned out long because of where I wanted to end it exactly. So it's not the greatest either. Just let me know what you think, please! It would help me greatly!**

**Thank you so much for reading at all! Thanks extra for reviews, alerts, favorites, etc! **

**K...that's all. **

* * *

_Chapter 4. Exhaustion_

* * *

Emma watched Peter carefully. His knuckles were white from gripping the steering wheel with iron fists; his eyes were an aching red around the dark irises for lack of sleep; long lines cut through his cheeks, giving him a dark and sinister demeanor; his head lolled forward several times before it lolled back again; he glanced anxiously at the small compass in the cup holder continually pointing them down the endless highway, waiting for even a millimeter of movement from the arrow.

The man was exhausted.

It wasn't surprising. After their strange but riveting rendezvous at her apartment, they'd immediately made arrangements with his mother, Angela, for the fastest airplane tickets available and headed down south to the man she had come to know as Noah Bennett. The trip hadn't taken more than a few hours, as he was only in Virginia, but it was still a taxing one after they arrived in the afternoon, devised a simple plan to follow the compass' guidance until they quite possibly drove into the ocean or at least off the road, and gotten straight back into the "rental" car that they had no intention of returning. They'd started in the early evening.

It was nearly four in the morning.

Of course, Emma had napped, eaten, and prepared her body for all of the "danger" Peter had warned her about on the way to Virginia. However, now she feared more for their lives as he nearly swerved into the oncoming lane before swiftly righting himself once more.

"Peter…" she murmured softly, reaching a gentle hand to cradle his elbow, which was oddly heavy from lack of energy. "Peter…do you want me to drive?"

His eyes, peeled quite literally like bananas, didn't leave the road. "It's okay," he answered quietly, trying not to offend.

She rubbed his harm. "You're tired; you need to rest."

"I'm f-" A loud yawn interrupted his sentence. "…fine."

Emma smiled kindly. "Peter…let me drive at least a few hours so you can sleep."

He shook his head, trying to roll the grogginess out of it.

"I'm fine, Emma…" He yawned once more. "Promise."

She sighed. She should have known she'd have to play the deaf card.

"Peter, I'm not blind," she tried to hiss, though in her placid, pleasant voice, it was not at all convincing. "I can drive just as well as anyone else."

Another yawn. "Emma…It has nothing to do with that." Yawn. "I just don't want…" Yawn. "I just don't want you to get there all washed out…" Yawn. "…because I made you drive for too long."

Her brow furrowed. She had barely understood his lips with all of the yawning. "And what about you?" she asked. "I'm not very good with my powers; if you're falling asleep standing, you won't be able to protect me."

He opened his mouth, but only a yawn came out.

"That's true," he conceded, sighing. And then yawning. She grinned knowing she'd had her victory. "Okay…next rest stop…We'll sleep for a while, and I'll let you drive when we get back on the road." He retracted a hand from the steering wheel, reaching into his pocket to pull out his cell phone. "Could you call Noah real quick? Let him know?"

She giggled for a moment, and Peter couldn't understand why.

"I'm deaf, remember?"

Oh. Yeah.

"Then, could you dial and hold the phone up to my ear?"

She nodded, taking the phone from his hand. "Okay."

* * *

Noah took a deep breath and another swig of coffee. Third cup of the night, and he'd only peed once. His bladder was near implosion, but he craved the caffeine and the need to stay awake was much greater than the need to urinate.

Only barely though.

It had been three hours since their last stop. God, did Peter even have a bladder? Surely he was drinking _something_ to stay awake. Or maybe not. Maybe he'd switched with the woman Emma, and he hadn't noticed. Whatever the reason, they needed to pull over and soon.

The sound of his phone vibrating in the passenger seat jarred him. He growled, picking it up and flipping it open.

"Peter?"

"Noah, I'm dying here. We _have_ to pull over."

Noah breathed a sigh of relief. There IS a God.

"Thank you, Peter. I didn't know how much longer I could last."

He heard the other man chuckle. "We figured we could nap a few hours," he explained, "and start again in the morning."

Noah felt his insides yearning for the rest. "Sounds good to me Peter I-"

He stopped mid-sentence as the view of a cop car cruising up in the lane next to him caught his attention. He cursed under his breath and stepped on the break to meet the speed limit. He warned Peter as well, and his car in front of Noah slowed down significantly.

The cop was astride him; the lights and sirens remained unannounced. Noah glanced to his side, and he could see the officer inside, singing along to the radio, completely ignoring the pair of them.

He released a breath he didn't know he was holding, prepared to tell Peter not to worry when something suddenly sent him keening.

There he was: pointed nose, thick brows, deep set eyes, and the smirk of the devil. Sylar in a police officer's uniform. He turned his head, smiling and waving his fingers. Noah blinked, doing double take, but as soon as he did, the cop was a sandy haired man in his late thirties, gut giving way slightly and mustache tickling his face. He had the same look, the same expression, but it wasn't him.

It wasn't Sylar.

"…oah? Noah? You there?"

He shook his head, unsure of himself. "Yeah, Peter," he answered. "I'm here."

"What happened?" Peter seemed worried. "We thought we lost you."

He didn't answer, continually glancing over to the cop car once more to find it was trailing steadily behind them. "Nothing. I just thought I saw something."

Peter found this amusing. "Well, I've seen several things that aren't there, so it's a common side effect."

Noah tried to chuckle; he failed. "Let's get the hell off this highway."

* * *

Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

That's what Sylar was. A complete idiot.

Who was he, flirting with the enemy like that? Pulling up along Noah's side and giving him a wave? He was a moron, that's what he was. A complete and utter moron.

Now he'd have to shape-shift again. And again. And again. Noah wasn't too inexperienced to think a gut feeling was something to ignore; it was the very thing your life depended upon. And because of Sylar's sleep-lacking induced flirt with danger, he now had to pay for it with his skin.

He'd have to ditch the cop car, steal someone else's at the rest stop. Probably a trucker. As he followed the pair of lone cars to the exit lane, he contemplated on whether or not to kill the victim. He laughed at himself. Of course he'd kill him. Why wouldn't he? Some sense of moral obligation?

That had to have been the funniest thing he'd heard in a day, besides Matt Parkman's useless, drugged grunts of struggle as Sylar ripped his scalp off. That was definitely the highlight.

He smirked at the thought. The warmth of blood at his fingertips always made him feel at home, always reminded him of whom and what he was. Sylar assured himself that after a killing, he'd be able to clear his head, snuff out the remnants of anger and frustration to concentrate its power on the mission at hand.

Kill all those who had used him, manipulated him, and consequentially hurt him.

However, as he parked several places away from Glasses and Company, darkness quickly overtook him, sleep alleviating his fragmented mind.

* * *

The sky was grey and pink, mixing and swirling like cotton candy as Noah Bennett exited the rest stop building with a package of mini-donuts and a fresh cup of coffee, a content albeit grim smile on his face. He had a good feeling about today. It was going to be good; he'd find his daughter, whisk her away to her mother's home with Crazy Show Dog Man (a minor glitch in the equation), and then he'd be off with Peter to hunt down the big bad wolf by slicing off his head and feeding it to pigs if he had to—an irony even he couldn't resist.

Yes. Today would be perfect.

Walking along the sidewalk, he watched as others ascended from their cars and trucks, slowly trekking towards the restrooms and vending machines, all unaware of the danger that could be lurking around every corner, behind every door. They had no idea, but he did. He knew, and he was there to make sure they never would need to.

Noah's smile tightened. He presumed he'd always be a Company man at heart. What was it people said? You can take the man out of the Company and destroy it along with all of its counterparts, but you can't take the condescending Company attitude out of the man?

Yeah. Something like that.

Caught in his reverie, Noah nearly didn't notice the cop car parked too close for comfort to his own vehicle. His peripherals just barely caught it, and somehow he couldn't take his eyes off of it. Wasn't that the same car from last night…rather, earlier that morning? Yes, it was. The same police car that he could have sworn he saw Sylar driving…

Then, it hit him like a piano filled with a ton of bricks.

There he was, arms crossed over his chest, jaw slackened as he reclined back in his seat with his eyes closed. He wore the officer's uniform, and he was painfully oblivious to the fact that he had shape-shifted in his sleep back to Nathan Petrelli's form.

So much for a good day.

Noah clenched his mouth shut, squeezing his coffee cup near the point of bursting. He wasted no time, as at that moment, it was his only advantage against the monster.

He was banging on the hood of Peter's car seconds later, signaling the man startled into awareness to roll down his window. He complied, and Noah found himself reverting back to autopilot Company mode.

"Sylar's here, and he looks like Nathan," he growled in a low voice.

Peter's brow furrowed. "That's not possible…Nathan's not there anymore…"

Noah nodded. "You're right; he's not…but his body still is." He glanced over to see that the man was still sleeping soundly in the police car. Noah returned his attention to Peter. "I need you and Emma to go get Claire."

Peter stared hard into his eyes. "And what about you?"

Noah swallowed, looking away. "…I'll try to slow him down for you."

"No, Noah," Peter bit out, leaning forward earnestly. "I am not going to face your daughter and tell her I abandoned the only Dad she has left."

Noah stepped back from the car. "Then don't tell her."

With that, he swiftly walked back to his car just as Emma was returning from the building with food. She was close to climbing in when Peter jumped out, glaring at Noah over the hood and past Emma's bewildered face.

Noah glanced over his shoulder, meeting the expression with a simple wave before sliding into his driver's seat.

Peter's fist pounded into the hood. He watched with fascination as a rainbow of colors exploded from the sound, and he wondered when he had regained Emma's ability. Probably somewhere between holding hands and kissing her. Damn it.

He ducked back inside his car. Emma followed.

"What's going on?" she questioned, alarmed. "What is Mr. Bennett planning?"

He turned to her, eyes angry and cold. "Sylar's already here, Em," he explained. "Noah's…going to slow him down."

She shook her head, further confused. They had told her plenty about this Sylar man to know not to mess with him. "Won't he be killed?"

Peter closed his eyes, taking a deep breath before quickly turning the key in the ignition and throwing the car into reverse, peeling out of the lot with a loud screech before he could change his mind.

"Thank you, Noah…"

* * *

As sick as it was, it felt good to be after him again. _This_ at least was something he was good at.

Unlike marriage, parenting, dating…Poor Lauren had no idea where he'd gone to.

But, Noah was good at _this_. He was.

Too bad it had to end this way, though. He probably wouldn't even get a decent funeral. He'd yet to figure out what Sylar did with the victims' bodies they didn't find.

So as Noah sat poised at the steering wheel, he mused on how undeserving he was of a funeral anyway. It's not like his life was much worth celebrating

No wife, a son who was a stranger to him, a runaway daughter, a woman who'd gone Haitian to forget him, and a countless amount of people that would hate him for destroying their lives by carting them away to Level 5.

Oh and making a crazed serial killer impersonate a U.S. Senator, son, and brother.

God, he was an ass.

But, maybe this could balance some of that out. Karma, or whatever you want to call it.

He never broke his intense gaze from Nathan's head, still unconscious, but after a short while, he saw the imperceptible twitch of his eyebrow. That was all he needed.

Noah back out of his parking spot and straightened himself up to be perfectly perpendicular to the cop car's driver's door. A few of passersby shuffled quickly by while others lingered to watch what this crazy man with horn rimmed glasses was planning to do.

Nathan sat up, cracking his neck and yawning with a stretch.

"I love you, Clair Bear."

Noah's leaden foot slammed into the gas pedal.

Just as his adversary was morphing into his monstrous body, Noah smashed into his side with a thunderous, glass breaking, teeth gritting crash.


	5. Realization

**Author shenanigans: Hey guys! Happy New Year! So I think one of my New Years Resolutions should be to actually finish this story...which as long as I know people are reading, I will :] Anyway, something BIG is going to happen next chapter, so if you don't like this one or any of the previous, PLEASE STAY WITH ME. It's just starting to get juicy. **

**So thanks so much for all the reviews, alerts, favorites, etc. I really appreciate them, guys. They make me smile :D**

**Onward!**

* * *

_Chapter 5. Realization_

* * *

For the first time in Claire's good year or two of painlessness, she was grateful for the curse she'd been left with. Twenty-two falls off a 30 foot high tightrope later—with no net below to break her fall, by the way—it was kind of nice to grimace at the image of her pretzel-ed legs rather than the feeling of them. She'd be surprised if the dirt didn't somehow become stained with her blood.

Of course, when discussing what sort of act she should perform with Samuel and Lydia, having cheerleading as her only former career and special talent outside of instantaneous cellular regeneration, it had boiled down to having daggers thrown at her or walking a tightrope. Contortionist was an option, too, but when she attempted to bend into the awkward positions, bones merely broke and poked out of her skin grotesquely. They had a feeling no one would quite appreciate that particular set of skills.

Dagger throwing sounded appealing, but when Samuel informed her that their one expert had left, she felt less inclined to stand on a target board while some fumbling newbie (such as herself) impaled her for all the audience to see.

Claire noticed the subtle glower Lydia held at the mention of their previous knife expert, but she decided it wouldn't be wise to mention it.

So, Claire found herself with bleeding feet and would-be aching muscles as she attempted for almost the 30th time to cross the tightrope. Samuel had observed the first half, but after realizing she would go at it until her body literally broke in half—as she had so delicately put it—he smiled and left her to her own devices. He had a carnival to tend to, but the late Monday evening meant not too many stragglers would be left to chase out before their dinner.

Meanwhile, Claire's forehead beaded with sweat, but she was adamant in her mission. Halfway across the rope and heavily fatigued, she wobbled dangerously, nearly plummeting to her 23rd death. No, she decided. NO. Not falling. She took a deep breath even as adrenaline rocked through her body, and she clenched her muscles tightly. The rope steadied itself as did she. A grin illuminated her face. Yes, she had this. Tiredness, she decided, was merely another form of pain. She couldn't feel it. Nope, she was impervious to pain.

And suddenly…she wasn't tired. At all, actually.

She gasped and lost balance, falling.

Bones crushing. Things cracking. Internal organs failing.

Claire sat herself up on her good arm, popping the other one back into socket while also throwing her broken leg back into place. Her nose scrunched in distaste as the tinge of blood assaulted her nostrils. There it was again. Always.

However, that wasn't her current concern. She was more blown away that she had just turned off her pain. She had _turned it off. _By herself. No brain splicing or voodoo experiments involved. Just herself and her own will.

Claire stared at her hands in wonder, wiggling the fingers in fascination. So…if she could turn it off, did that mean she could just as easily turn the pain back on? Like a light switch?

The thought intrigued her, but before she could ponder on it further, a woman's silhouette in the growing darkness outside appeared at the tent entrance. Claire smiled at the tattoo-ed lady and quickly hopped up to greet her. She wasn't the fondest of Lydia, as she was very distant compared to the rest of the carnies, but Claire had a feeling it had less to do with her presence and more to do with Lydia's past experiences.

"Time for dinner," the woman stated simply before turning around to leave. Claire caught up to her outside the tent, hoping to start an at least decent conversation.

"So…how long have you lived here?" Claire asked after a brief pause.

The tall woman glanced down at her seeming slightly surprised but just barely. "I can't quite remember anymore," she answered honestly, with an apologetic tilt of her head.

Claire nodded. "Oh. Okay."

Silence ensued but for only a moment as both opened their mouths to say what they thought needed to be said.

"I was just thinking that-"

"I was wondering if-"

And, they stopped, blinking, before smiling good-naturedly at one another.

"You first," Lydia ordered, but Claire shook her head.

"It's not important," she claimed. It really wasn't—more of a silly question about Lydia's uncanny ability to tell her future. "You go."

Sighing, the woman agreed, "Okay." However, she wasn't sure how to proceed. She was still working on being motherly, after all. "Claire…do you really like it here?"

She nodded emphatically, but her brow furrowed. "Yes, of course. Why?"

Lydia seemed concerned at her response. "Well...you probably shouldn't...if you know what's good for you..." she replied, sounding much more ominous than either had anticipated.

Claire nearly stopped in her tracks. "Why?"

Lydia glanced around the surrounding area, finding only tents and dirt; the carnival was an eerie place without others milling about. She returned her attention to Claire, slowing their walk and grabbing her hands in her own. "Because, Claire, Samuel will make you his puppet," she told her earnestly, but Claire remained befuddled. "He's done it to everyone: sucks them in with promises of hope and a family before he learns their weakness and uses it to manipulate them."

Claire could only stare at the woman. There were so many reasons what she said could be a lie. Then again, what real _reasonable_ reason did she have to lie? What could she gain from that besides Claire leaving? Surely Lydia didn't have some juvenile jealousy over the attention she was receiving as a new installment of the family? No, no. Claire couldn't imagine her being that way. Yes, she had been slightly creepy when they first met, but there was something about her eyes. They seemed so much older than what she was.

It frightened Claire that perhaps she looked like that, too.

She simply asked, "Why are you telling me this?"

Lydia opened her mouth to speak, but her eyes were directed away from Claire's as she looked over her head, straightening up and letting go of Claire's hands. She didn't speak, but Claire turned to see Doyle walking towards them, all grins and giggles.

"Hey guys! Heading to dinner?" he inquired.

Claire looked to Lydia, asking her without speaking what to do.

Lydia nodded to the man. "Would you like to join us?"

Reaching them, he answered, "Certainly! I'd love to have two stunning women on my arms." And, he offered each of them an elbow. Smiling, somewhat sadly, Lydia took it as Claire took the other.

"You'll never believe what I did today…" Doyle started, but both were quick to tune him out as Claire met the older woman's gaze over his head.

'Later' she mouthed silently.

Claire nodded, and Doyle escorted them to dinner, babbling happily the whole way there.

* * *

Claire could _not_ sleep.

She had tried everything imaginable—or at least what the confines of her tent allowed her to do, which was mostly roll around until she grew comfortable and then restless all over again—but nothing seemed to ease her distressed mind.

It was useless. Lydia's words continually echoed in that space between her ears.

Samuel? Manipulative?

No, he couldn't be. He just didn't seem like that kind of guy…

Then again, Noah Bennett didn't seem like that kind of guy for 16 years of her life.

The thought of the man sent a pang to her chest. She missed him terribly, and as she watched the ménage of broken glass twirling like a baby's chandelier above her head, she couldn't help but wish to visit him.

Claire's heart almost stopped. If Samuel was really who Lydia said he was, did that mean she could never, _ever_ see her family again?

The idea brought tears to her eyes, and old memories of fighting with Lyle over the remote and baking cupcakes with her mom resurfaced painfully.

Too bad she hadn't figured how to turn off that one yet.

Just as she was about to concede defeat and have a pity fest, she saw a shadow on the side of her tent. A tall man. Reaching slowly for the flap at the entrance. Long fingers seeming all too familiar as she had remembered one particular man pointing a finger at her and destroying her world. One with ridiculous eyebrows.

The thought sat her bolt upright, but she didn't scream. She would not sacrifice her new family like she had her old one. This was her battle, and she was going to face it if it killed her.

Which was actually not out of the realm of possibility.

She waited patiently, and as the man revealed himself, she held her breath…

…Only to find that it was Samuel on the other side.

…Okay…

"Claire?"

She was already standing, paranoid beyond belief.

"What is it?" she whispered in the dark.

He motioned for her to follow him out. Though she narrowed her eyes suspiciously, she did.

He led her to what she knew to be the main entrance of the carnival. Normally, there was a large wrought-iron grate with a fancy pointed spears at the top as a beautiful but protective edge. Today, though, it was featured with a car rammed through it, half fallen down because of the impact. However, Claire wasn't entire sure the contraption could be called a car anymore. Three of the four tires were blown out. The windshield was shattered, with jagged pieces remaining around the frame while the back half of the roof had been torn off. The original coat paint ceased to exist after all the scratches and dents. It looked like a wrecking ball had had its way with the thing. And then the thing jumped off a building. Into a pit of fire. Did she mention there were scorch marks?

This, though, was of no importance to Claire, because standing next to the passenger door cradling a woman in his arms was Peter.

"Peter!" she squealed, excitement overtaking her as she sprinted toward him and climbed around the fallen gate to greet him.

She had to stop short when she saw that the woman huddled in his arms was injured—with a giant shard of glass sticking out of her chest.

And, Peter had never looked angrier or more desperate in the short time she'd known him and come to call him her uncle.

"Claire…" he growled, voice cracking. "Sylar..."

She clamped her eyes shut, hands in fists, fear making her limbs grow cold and immobile. Her worst nightmare had been realized by Fate.

Damn it.


	6. Consternation

**Author shenanigans: Okay, I really wanted to get the story moving beyond bouncing back and forth without making it seem rushed. Did I succeed this chapter? I hope so because the ideas were going crazy in my head with not enough effort to write them all down in perfect format. Just please let me know. I'm a review whore like every other writer on Fanfiction, so I like criticisms, too. Well, I don't really like them, but they're helpful. Suggestions are fine, too. Some give me more ideas to compound on my own. **

**So my little chapter titles-I actually got the idea from a song called "Let the Drummer Kick" by Citizen Cope. The song was stuck in my head when I started the story, so I don't think that really needs a disclaimer, but just in case you were interested...**

**Thanks soooo, so much for reviews, alerts, favorites, etc. I really, really appreciate them. **

**Onward! **

* * *

_Chapter 6. Consternation_

* * *

Panic always ensues a traumatic event.

So why was everyone so God damn calm?

Claire couldn't understand as Samuel greeted Peter with that kind and fatherly smile she had come to learn remained etched on his face permanently, and Peter nodded his gratitude while Samuel offered to allow them in and see what they could do for…What was her name?

Emma; that's what Peter had said.

She was more than okay with that. Any friend of Peter's was a friend of hers, but…did everyone have to move so slowly? This woman was dying, for goodness sake. She could see the suppressed panic in Peter's eyes, but she could also see he was trying to win favor with Samuel already.

Why? What was so important that he needed Samuel's help?

Then it dawned on Claire. Sylar wasn't _only_ back.

He was on his way to the Sullivan Bros. Carnival at that very moment.

Ugh. Would she never get a break from that bastard?

"Claire…your blood can heal," Peter finally managed to point out as they entered a shabby trailer Claire assumed belonged to Samuel.

"I know," she bit back, irritated. "Do you happen to have a syringe on you, Mr. Paramedic?"

Samuel moved the few things he had sitting on a quaint couch in the corner, and Peter gently lay Emma down, careful not to disturb the very prominent shard of glass in her chest.

"No," he whimpered back, the hysteria slowly rising in his voice as he realized that there may not be a solution. "But…your blood-"

"Claire's blood probably only needs to reach the bloodstream, right?" Samuel hovered beyond Claire and Peter, who had taken to kneeling beside the injured woman.

Peter nodded. "That would make sense...No one's figured out how it works yet except that it does."

Claire agreed. "So…if we can still get it into her bloodstream without a needle, right?"

"Yes," Peter chirped. "If she drinks it." He shook his head, gazing at the woman. "Oh, Emma would not like this."

"Well, if it's going to save her life, I'm sure she won't mind," Samuel chimed before turning to the makeshift kitchen and drawers, where he withdrew a knife. Returning to them, he held the knife out to Claire, and as she faced him, she met those dark eyes.

Somehow, in that nanosecond of contact, she saw Samuel—saw his drive to do anything to achieve what was necessary. It didn't matter to him that she would hurt herself. Sure, she'd heal, but it's the principal. Even if she wouldn't, he'd still have encouraged her to cut herself if it meant saving this woman.

Claire's eyes watered. And here she thought she'd finally found a family.

Regardless of this epiphany, she took the knife trying her best to remain stoic. Pushing past Peter and leaning over Emma, she slid the knife swiftly across her palm, feeling a slight tingle of contact but nothing more. She made sure the blood was leveled above Emma's slightly open mouth, but Peter reached under her arm to open Emma's jaw wider just for certainty.

The only problem was Emma didn't swallow.

Peter cursed while Claire's hand healed, reminding her just how much her ability was useful to the most manipulative people. God, she couldn't trust anyone. They'd all cozy up to her with nice lies and use her when the time was right only to dump her afterward because who wants an indestructible cheerleader hanging around looking young and beautiful forever? Claire had felt herself losing her faith in people, the only thing she'd had to believe in since meeting the face of evil in the form of one monstrous man, for a long time, but that might have been her breaking point.

A tear slipped down her cheek, but neither Peter nor Samuel seemed to take notice.

She slit her palm again, allowing the blood to flow into Emma's mouth. Peter's eyes widened as he turned to her, but quickly he understood. If she got enough blood in her mouth, Emma's natural reflex would be to swallow. So just as promptly as the wounds healed, Claire cut herself again. And again. And again.

Until finally the woman swallowed.

Without thinking, Claire yanked the shard of glass out of her chest, causing Peter to yelp.

"Claire! She could bleed out!" He threw off his jacket, flinging it down on Emma's chest and pressing, one hand on top the other.

Oh. She hadn't thought of that.

Suddenly, she was praying the woman healed. She didn't think Peter could forgive her, or she herself could for that matter, if she killed the woman.

Within seconds, her prayers were answered.

Emma's eyes shot open as she gasped, shoving at Peter's arms. He retracted them as she sat up, sputtering and coughing, tremulous. Peter supported her within an arm behind her back, gently patting.

"Emma? Em, you okay?" he asked, hopeful while Emma caught her breath.

However, she went rigid, unmoving, frozen like a deer in headlights, which is what she reminded Claire of.

"P-peter?"

Her words were curled with a slight twang that caught Claire off guard.

"P-peter? S-say…say something."

He smiled. "Something," he teased before he leaned forward, wrapping her in a tight embrace. "God, I'm so glad you're okay."

As he pulled back, they all saw Emma's wide eyes grow wider as tears filled them, lips shaking.

Peter's brow furrowed. "Em, what's wrong?"

She didn't reply.

He drew his face closer to her, careful that she saw his lips. (That's when Claire realized why the woman's language sounded strange to her).

"What's wrong?"

"I…I…" Tears slid down her cheeks, smile brightening her face. "I c-can hear-r you, P-peter…"

Peter's expression managed to match something like Emma's. Samuel, forgotten behind them, smiled to himself.

Claire stared.

She'd just made a deaf woman hear.

"Holy-"

* * *

Sylar thought he was a pretty reasonable man.

Don't screw with me, and maybe I'll slit your throat instead of your head.

Simple. Clear. Clean-cut.

So why anyone couldn't seem to get with that program was beyond him.

Noah Bennett, the bastard, him hit with a car. _A car. _Yes, he healed, but that was beside the point. The man chose to be a martyr in one of the stupidest ways one could be (as if martyrdom wasn't stupid enough). He made an emotionally imbalanced human being _angry_ when he knew good and well said human being wouldn't _die_ from his attack.

Geez.

What. An. Idiot.

And then there was Peter, thinking he could get away in a speedy car chase. Ha, that was blown half to hell—literally. Between Sylar's heating and electric abilities, he wasn't sure which was more fun. Throwing them into oncoming traffic was pretty exciting, too, but Sylar made a point to not kill them.

Because how would he get to the carnival? And who else would poor Claire hate to see brutally murdered more than poor Uncle Pete?

Pulling up to the front entrance and the smashed in gate, he marveled at his handiwork that was Peter's demolished vehicle. Smirking, he stopped and climbed out of his car. With a telekinetic flick of his wrist, he moved the obstacle that was the gate out of the way, throwing it down flat while simply strolling around the heap of metal that was once an automobile.

Entering the carnival, he sensed the stillness, the quiet of the night.

Sylar rolled his eyes, continuing on his journey, every few stops childishly knocking something over such as a light pole or food stand. Each hit the ground with a resounding crash that he knew would quickly draw the attention of every single carnie in the vicinity.

Were they really so unprepared? Sylar remembered his short stint of living there as a Gabriel/Nathan hybrid (though he preferred to bury those sickening memories in the darker parts of his subconscious), and he remembered what they learned of him. They knew who he was, what he was capable of. Did they really think when he disappeared, it'd be the last time they ever saw him?

What morons. Every last one of them.

He shrugged as he stopped in his tracks, a lit light pole crackling with electricity as it smashed into the grass, igniting the ground with a sluggish blaze. His feral grin returned.

Maybe it was okay the idiots had no idea how to handle him.

He was pretty hungry, after all, and a buffet was waiting for him all around as he heard the sounds of fearful whispers and angry voices.

"Oh, Peter," he called, glancing around at the few shadows observing him behind trailers and tents.

"Peeteerrr…"

* * *

All four of them heard the echoes of destruction.

They hadn't moved, still kneeled on the ground.

Emma's ability was shortly celebrated as his chilling voice filled their ears.

"_Peter…Oh, Peter…"_

Claire wondered if it wasn't such a blessing she'd given Emma back her hearing.

"_Peter…time to come out and play." _

Another thunderous crash was heard.

And a scream.

"_Whoops…there went her head! Come on, Pete, you're not going to wait around for another innocent bystander to die, are you?" _

Samuel, Emma, and Claire turned their gazes to Peter, who's eyes had hardened into dark, molten rocks.

"That bastard…"

Emma reached a hand out to Peter's and held it, intertwining their fingers. He stared blankly at the gesture as did Claire.

But, they were distracted as a new voice filtered through the walls.

Nathan's voice.

"_Pete…Peter! I'm still in here! You can save me!" _

Claire stilled, bewildered. If Sylar was Nathan, then that meant that Nathan was-

Her hand covered her mouth, mind reeling while vomit threatened to push its way through, and as Peter met her eyes, he realized she hadn't known anything about Nathan's split persona or death.

"Claire," he whispered, voice hoarse and cracking with tears. "Nathan's…N-Nathan's…"

She shook her head, brow creased as she cried, heart tearing painfully inside.

Peter couldn't finish his sentence as he withdrew his hand from Emma's and leaned forward to wrap Claire in his arms before she sobbed into his shirt. She'd hardly gotten to know him, hardly at all. But, they had had time. Or at least she thought they did. She thought they would have time to learn about each other. They already loved each other, but…Sylar had taken away their time.

God damn him.

Peter kissed her head over and over, pulling her in tightly.

…_Take care of Claire…_

He had told him to take care of her, and he'll be damned if he didn't follow through on his brother's last commands.

…_You can do anything, Pete… Anything…_

Yes, he could. And he would.

_I love you. _

Pulling away from Claire, he gave her one last kiss on the forehead, rubbing away the pools of water under her eyes, trying to give her a smile through his own tear stained face.

"I swear on my brother's grave," he choked out, "I will kill him."

Claire nodded, wanting nothing more than to see the monster burned alive, hear his screams as he withered to ashes, never to be heard of again.

"But f-first…we c-can't let you die," she pointed out, offering her hand to his, offering her ability.

He took it, feeling the surge of power as his earlier wounds healed before their eyes.

Samuel watched, fascinated, choosing strategically to not let this merry group know that he had played his part in their Sylar's return.

And, he intended to do everything to ensure Peter was made a liar.

He smirked.

"_Come on, Peter…Come on out to play."_


	7. Confrontation

**Author shenanigans: Hey guys! Sorry it took so long to update. I got back into school, and now there's never any time except the weekend when I just want to simply not think at all. However, this weekend I felt the urge so here ya go! This is the Sylar/Peter showdown, although I don't know if it can really be called a "showdown." It's not really like that when I imagine a showdown. This is more centered around the conflict than the fists and fighting. Regardless, I hope you like it. **

**As always, thanks so much for reviews, alerts, favorites, etc. I truly, madly, deeply appreciate them. **

**That's it!**

* * *

_Chapter 7. Confrontation_

* * *

Claire watched Peter kiss Emma, full on the lips, passionately.

And, her heart hurt.

He was really going to descend and face their monster by himself.

"Samuel, can't anybody help?" she pleaded, hoping that maybe even if he didn't care for her, he at least cared for his own carnies' safety.

His brow furrowed as he thought. "Yes, but…Claire, he's very, _very_ strong." He sighed, rubbing his wrinkled forehead. "I don't think any amount of power we have is going to stop him."

"Then he will kill all of us!" Claire exclaimed, slightly enraged that he was unwilling to even give it a fight.

She recalled when he had been beaten by the man who one of the carnies had cheated out of his money at a game. He hadn't fought then either. So, if Lydia was correct, he was a lying, manipulative, _cowardly_, pacifist bastard.

Great. Just what they needed.

"Claire, no one's going out there but me," Peter murmured calmly, a strange ease about him. "It's my name he's calling, my fight."

"God, Peter, no it's not!" She grunted with frustration. "It's everyone's fight!" She threw out her arms in gesture. "Everyone is fighting for themselves right now! For each other!" Refreshed tears welled in her eyes. "Who the hell made you the hero, Peter? Why does it get to be you?"

"Because, Claire, it's my fault he's here," he supplied, not at all deterred by her rant. He reached out, squeezed her shoulder. "I'll be fine; I have your ability."

"He can still kill you…" she whispered, horrified at the idea. "You have a weak spot, Peter. He can hit it, and he can kill you."

Not paying any heed to her warning, he smiled. "I'll be back, Claire. I promise."

With that, he let go and squared his shoulders, prepared to walk out of Samuel's trailer.

Claire and Emma watched in terror as he reached the door, grasping the handle.

Samuel said nothing.

Peter glanced at them one last time with a weak smile and a wave.

He threw open the door.

* * *

Sylar could hear his heart beating in his ears.

He didn't know when it had become so loud, so prominent.

Maybe it was the animal inside him, the beast coming unhinged.

He didn't know, but as his prying eyes finally spotted Peter rounding a tent and coming into the line of oh so delicious fire, he felt his skin heat and boil as his heartbeat grew faster, adrenaline coursing through him.

He grinned.

"Pete! I'm so glad you could make it! I was just looking for you…"

Peter did not seem amused as he approached, which enticed Sylar all the more.

"What's the matter? Something bothering you?" he quipped innocently. "Brother?"

That aroused a response. Sylar acutely observed how his nostrils flared and his eyes darkened over the blackish circles under them and unshaven face. He couldn't help but to chuckle; Peter resembled him more and more every day. How touching.

He opened his mouth to speak, but the Petrelli beat him to the punch.

"You've killed half my family," he growled, low and gravelly. Sylar smiled in triumph. "You've hurt my niece." Was his pace picking up, or was it just Sylar? "You've murdered dozens of innocent people." Yes, his voice was getting higher, too. "You've tried to blow up New York, impersonate the President, and now, you almost kill the only good thing left in this God forsaken life." He fell into a quick jog, heading towards his immobile, smirking enemy. "I swear to whatever God that would let you exist, I will kill you!"

And then the punch was thrown, hitting Sylar square in the jaw.

He fell head first to the ground, bells ringing in his ears, but the recovery was short-lived as Peter fisted his collar and offered another fist to his nose, which successfully broke with a loud _crack. _Another was delivered to his eye before Peter retracted his fist, and with all the force he could manage, he aimed it into a part of Sylar's abdomen he had learned as a paramedic would hurt like a bitch. As his opponent howled in agony, he knew he'd been correct.

He dropped him as he crumpled into a ball, waiting for his healing to take effect.

"You took away Nathan, you bastard!" Peter screeched as he stepped behind Sylar and drove his foot hard into his lower back, receiving another yelp of pain. "You took away my brother! My friend!" As he circled around his feet, another sound kick was given to Sylar's shin and then his knee. He heard a loud cracking pop, and Sylar let out an earsplitting scream.

He paused in his attack for a moment, letting the monster absorb every last bit of his misery before he squatted next to the man's face, meeting his hollow gaze before whispering, "You took away the good Nathan saw inside of me." He paused. "Now…there's only hate."

They were quiet, nothing but the sound of night bugs and their haggard breathing.

Until Sylar began to laugh. First softly, then obnoxiously so, teeth bared into the dirt below him.

Peter waited with a patient scowl.

His laughter echoed across the empty grounds as he finally found the will to speak, "D-did you know…you j-just broke their h-hearts?"

Confounded, Peter didn't answer.

But, he glanced around the open space, towards intermixed trailers and tents.

And, he saw Claire standing between them, fists clenched, lips trembling.

Their eyes met, but he broke the gaze before it could break him.

Emma timidly peeped out of the shadows near her, obviously tearful.

God, how he wished they didn't have to see him like this.

He closed his eyes, tuning them out of his mind.

"They'll understand," he muttered, not even believing himself.

This had Sylar slapping his healed knee as he drunkenly rolled to his feet, stumbling. "Understand? Peter, they think you're no better than me right now." He chortled, snorting. "Do you realize what it would take for you to kill me?"

His health perfected, Sylar stood several inches taller than Peter once more, causing the latter to back up momentarily, the darkness to his eyes lost.

Sylar smirked, throwing up his hand and sending Peter flying into the nearest object, which happened to be a miniature trailer at the end of the row that caved in upon contact. Before the Petrelli had a chance to take a breath, his adversary was upon him, fingers wrapping tightly around his neck, cutting off his oxygen as he pressed him further into the metal. He squirmed and sputtered, fighting for air while Sylar was content to wait until stars were closing in on his vision.

"Much more than you're willing to give," he answered to his earlier and, frankly, forgotten question. "You're so selfish, Peter; unwilling to sacrifice your nobility and heroics for the sake of ridding the world of me." He tilted his head, observing as his prey was growing closer to unconsciousness. "You just can't stand the thought of not being their hero, even if it means I'm still out there." Peter could only stare helplessly back at him, eyes fluttering. "To destroy me, Pete, you have to first destroy yourself."

Just as Peter was fading, Sylar's monologue was interrupted by the loud smack of metal against the back of his head. He grunted, dropping Peter to the ground and immediately turning his attention to his attacker.

Who, whoa and behold, was Claire, holding a long piece of metal piping and bearing a scowl on her face.

"You are not going to kill him, too!" she spat angrily, prepping for another swing at a place particularly below the belt.

He anticipated her actions and caught the pipe an inch from his body.

He smiled, sending an electric blue shock through the metal which cajoled Claire as she was electrocuted, hands burned. She fell backward from the impact, releasing her weapon gone awry and landing in the dirt.

Sylar loomed dangerously above her, an irrepressable grin encompassing his face. She blanched at the sight of it, especially as she considered the hugs she'd given Nathan, the kisses on his cheek.

The love.

Fire erupted behind emerald eyes as she glared into his dark ones.

"Oh, Claire," he teased, chuckling. "Beating up your potential soul mate is no way of building bridges."

"Killing uncles isn't a good way, either," she retorted haughtily before adding, "And, I am not your soul mate, potential or imagined."

He seemed pleased by her reaction. "You do have a good point, Claire. You do seem awfully fond of Uncle Pete," he commented, glancing over his shoulder to see the man groaning in his unconsciousness. "In fact, you almost seem too fond." He quirked an eyebrow as one diabolical scheme after another erupted in his mind. He turned away, kneeling down to lift Peter's head by fisting his hair.

Claire gasped. Her uncle's eyes opened blearily, vaguely, trying to focus, and they finally did as they found her face. He smiled the same smile he always had as though he wanted to reassure her. She could have hit him if he wasn't already so beaten.

"Tell him, Claire, how you felt when you first saw him," Sylar taunted, drawing from her emotions and thoughts. "Tell him how you thought he was beautiful and sad and how you fantasized about him after that, dreaming up lives where he was always your hero…and something a bit more intimate."

She wished he hadn't heard. Prayed, actually. But, Peter's eyes only grew wider with every word, and Claire sputtered as she tried to find a way to deny it.

"Th-that was a long time ago!" she settled on.

He laughed. "And that makes it okay that you thought about sleeping with your uncle?"

Her mouth opened and closed. What could she say to that?

"I…I…" she whispered, head bowed. "I'm sorry, Peter..."

Sylar was excited by his progress. Peter was _not. _

"Oh, don't you worry your pretty little head, Claire," he prattled on. "You weren't the only one. Peter has quite the vivid imagination, too."

Her brow furrowed, and she looked up to meet his steady gaze growing blanker by the second.

Sylar grinned. "He thought a lot about you…too much to just be fatherly love, right Pete?"

Peter swallowed, head pounding against his entire body. "It was before I knew who you were, Claire, I swear it."

She nodded. "I know, Pete. It's okay…It's fine." It couldn't stop the tears that seemed to be in endless supply.

God, she could kill Sylar. She would. She would kill that bastard no matter what it took out of her. Maybe Peter wasn't able to go that extra mile, not because he was weak but because he was good. She, on the other hand, had eternity for redemption. She could go as far in to the deep end as she wanted and drown if she needed to because it wouldn't matter in another hundred years or so. She would kill him. For her family's honor. For Peter's sake. For everyone's lives.

She would kill him.

This she swore to herself as another body was thrown into their midst.

One she hadn't anticipated.

Sylar released Peter's head as his eyes fell over a figure Claire couldn't see. She rolled on her side, and Samuel's silhouette came into sight, coming closer with every step.

She turned her gaze immediately back to Sylar, wondering what he would do in this man's presence.

She wasn't surprised to see the same manic expression as always.

However, she didn't expect to see the familiarity.

Samuel was close enough to see clearly.

He laughed light heartedly as he threw his arms out. "Children, it's time to stop fighting."

There was a subtle pause before they all heard the rumble beneath their bodies. For several moments, Sylar was visibly alarmed until he stared hard into Samuel's face and lifted his feral finger, ready to slice.

Samuel shocked her by smirking, and suddenly, Sylar was steadily becoming encased by a torrent of dirt and rocks which slowly chugged along. Carefully, though, it sped up in its revolutions. Faster and faster until the dust particles were spiraling so quickly, Claire couldn't see Sylar through the mess. However, she herself was forced to bury her face in her arms as dust threatened her.

Minutes later, the whizzing sound of wind stopped and the dirt stilled, falling in large plumes to Sylar's feet.

Claire lifted her eyes just in time to see half of his face decimated, skin ripped off with muscles hanging grotesquely. He was looking at her just before he fell to his knees and then the ground, his body eerily still.

She looked to Samuel, who smiled kindly.

"I'm sorry, Claire, but there's been a change in plans."

* * *

**P.S. Yeah, totally stole that from the last episode, and I will probably continue doing little things like that since the season is going on as I'm writing, but it won't anything major. Just the small things. Okay. Done. Please review!**


	8. Estimation

**Author shenanigans: Yay reviews! Thanks so much guys :) Truly makes my day better. On a side note, all of that excitement over the last episode with the Sylar/Claire business was...disappointing. I didn't expect her to like suddenly realize he's the only one that will be left for her, but...there was just something strange about the way they interacted. He kept talking about how connected they were, but neither seemed connected to the conversation at all. I guess that was kind of the point...There was a single tiny moment, though, that I liked: when they were chillin' in the closet, and he handed her back that bandana or handkerchief or whatever it was. She just kind of looks at him for a second and then takes it. I don't know what's with my head, but they actually seemed to like SEE each other for a second...And then she becomes a lesbian. **

**Ah, Heroes, how you intrigue me. **

**Okay. Done criticizing. Thanks so much for reviews, alerts, favorites, and all that jazz. I am very grateful for the feedback :)**

**Onward!**

* * *

_Chapter 8. Estimation_

* * *

Love.

That's what he felt while he was in his forced slumber.

Love.

She was there, running, smiling in her white dress.

There was gold all around. Everywhere. But, it met a blue sky.

She pulled him along, tugging at his hand. He reluctantly but excitedly followed.

But, she tripped over a root, and they fell, he landing on top of her in the tall, honey colored grass.

She giggled, a musical sound in the wind.

He pressed his lips to hers, smiling.

He was so happy it ached.

It physically hurt him.

Until he felt a pair of tender lips near the corner of his mouth.

He grinned, imagining it was her.

But, the fingers trailing down his chest…they were too long. And cold.

And that smell…like dirt and sun…wasn't hers. It couldn't have been.

He forced his eyes open.

* * *

Emma was a very sweet woman.

This much Claire deduced as she tried to converse with her while they were tied back to back, thrown into a storage tent, and Peter was unconscious, hands knotted together and lying limply in a corner.

The poor thing seemed so baffled, dismayed.

She'd heard what Sylar had said, what Peter had said, what she had said.

And, she couldn't understand.

Claire knew how she must have felt: to have your own hero ripped down from his pedestal right before your eyes. It was a painful experience, but it seemed inevitable that all of her heroes were deeply flawed—near the point of fatally. She guessed she'd always felt the underlying darkness in Peter despite the warmth he exuded in waves, so though it broke a part of her, she was still willing to accept him as he was, not quite good but never really bad.

Emma, however, wasn't quite as ready.

"Di…Did you t-two…ev…ever…?"

Claire's brow furrowed. "What…?" And, then she comprehended.

"Oh God no!" she whispered as loudly as she could. "I…No…Uh, Emma, right?" She sighed, trying her best to meet her companions's gaze over her shoulder. "Sylar…didn't know what he was talking about…Peter and I…we didn't know we were related when we first met, and when we first met…" She snorted bitterly. "Well, Sylar was trying to kill me…and Peter saved my life…"

Emma nodded, looking back at Claire as best she could. "Right," she replied, calmly, kindly. "But…now…"

"Emma, I swear to you," Claire breathed, "as soon as I learned he was my uncle, I stopped thinking about him like _that_. And, I know it was the same for him." She paused for a second, allowing the older woman to absorb and process the information. "I was his brother's daughter…Yeah, we get along really well, and I do love him…but simply as my uncle …Somewhere between a brother and a dad."

After several silent minutes of thought, she nodded her understanding, sighing with relief. "I believe you, Claire."

The ex-cheerleader smiled. "Thank God," she answered with a deep release of a breath she hadn't known she'd been holding. "I would have felt terrible for ruining Peter's only relationship in like…two years."

Claire couldn't see the shocked look on Emma's face. "Really?" she quipped. "He doesn't…date that much?"

"We have that in common, yes," the younger girl joked. Her smile faded, though, as she contemplated the complication that was her uncle. "He's…a different kind of guy. He acts on his gut feeling…He wants to be special, a hero…" She took a long inhale and exhale. "But…he's not perfect. He has...this other side, Emma. Everyone does…his is just rarer…and more intense because of it." She hoped she was portraying her point clearly. "Do you get what I'm saying?"

Emma was quiet.

"Yes."

Claire frowned feeling pity for her fellow prisoner.

"I know it's a lot to take in," she explained, "but for some reason, this kind of thing happens to us…all the time."

Emma giggled. "I've noticed," she claimed, as though it were a conspiracy only they were in on. "Ever since I met Peter…it's one strange thing after another."

Claire was thoughtful for a moment before she laughed. "Me too."

The two women linked eyes and grinned shyly, helpless in their situation but hopeful despite it.

Silence fell in the minuscule space between them.

"Claire?"

"Yeah?"

"…Thank you for giving me my ears."

Claire's heart warmed; she could tell Emma was a special person.

"You're welcome."

* * *

"He doesn't want to be alone."

Samuel, preoccupied with his ink and a piece of paper, glanced up from his makeshift workstation to find Lydia's steady, conniving gaze upon him. For once, he didn't put up his façade of the kind, whacky old carnie. There was no need around the woman. Too much business was at stake to bother.

"So…why come here?" he questioned, careful that she didn't see the sketch he'd just splattered onto the page. "If he's looking for our acceptance, he has it. No need to kill more Petrellis."

"It's not _us_ he wants," she retorted smartly before flashing her wrist in his direction. "It's her."

Above her veins and tanned skin was the face of the cheerleader, smiling in her red uniform.

Samuel quirked an eyebrow, interest growing as he pulled her limb in for closer examination. "Because she can't die…and neither can he," he answered for himself, brilliantly putting two and two together. He smiled. "Our poor Sylar wants his victim's affection. How…intriguing."

Lydia was expressionless, keeping her eyes focused on a spot behind his head.

"Oh, we could use this to our advantage…definitely to our advantage," he rambled to himself. "One of the most powerful men on earth and his cheerleader in our captivity…Yes, this is perfect."

He looked up and found Lydia's gaze, his face crinkling as his mind was enlightened with a multitude of ideas.

"My dear Lydia, I think we've found his weak spot."

The woman blinked, and he chuckled to himself.

* * *

Throwing his shirt on and stepping into the crisp, chilly morning air, Sylar had to admit he felt much better than he had hours before. All that emotional turmoil and anger all screwed up hotly inside his chest…It felt like it'd been ripped out of him, and his skin had been peeled away with it, leaving him lighter and for more carefree than before.

Thinking back to Samuel half demolishing him, it probably wasn't far from the truth.

Now he had a slightly clearer head thanks to the scantily clad woman who decided to molest him in his sleep. But, hey, he wasn't complaining. Being a deranged serial killer doesn't give you much time or thought for sex.

Not that they had sex, but…Sylar had been more aroused than he'd been for a long time, that was for sure.

Shaking the feeling of her spider like fingers, he glanced up and saw the stars still twinkling. Though it was the next day, they were stuck in the darkest part of night. He grinned to himself. It had always been his favorite time, even as Gabriel. He'd stay up into the late hours and whip out a telescope to observe the maybe two or three stars he could see in his Queens apartment. He may have owned a watch shop, but he used to imagine he'd led a whole other adventurous life as an astronaut or astronomer.

The idea seemed so silly to him now. Ultimate power kind of kicked astronomy's ass.

And yet, he had to pause and consider.

Was it really what he wanted?

According to Lydia, it wasn't. According to Lydia, he just didn't want to be alone for eternity; he wanted someone to share his life with, someone to tell his stories to, whether they be about brain splicing or…or…

What did normal people do anyway?

He couldn't see himself going back to watch fixing. But, he couldn't quite picture creating a new life either.

How would he get a job? His only reference left alive would be…

Claire Bennett. And, he was fairly certain she wouldn't put in a good word for him.

Sighing, Sylar resumed his previous path towards Samuel's trailer, but just as he arrived, the man himself popped out of the door with a sulking Lydia following behind.

He seemed excited to see him.

"Sylar, my boy, you're awake!" he stated, throwing his hands up before clasping them on his shoulders. "Hopefully there's no hard feelings about earlier, right?"

Sylar smirked, eyebrow twitching imperceptibly. "No. None at all."

He grinned. "Good because that would have put a real damper on things." He paused for a minute, watching the younger man before him. "Hmm…Lydia here tells me that at the current moment in time, we have something that you want."

Sylar arched an eyebrow. "If you're referring to Claire," he replied smoothly, brushing each of Samuel's hands off with a mere glance, "then, you obviously are underestimating her."

Samuel seemed taken aback for a fraction of a second before he chortled. "Underestimating? That girl? Wouldn't dream of it." He laughed. "Do you realize she spent a whole day trying to walk a tightrope? I was so proud, I was just about to hand her the 'Indestructible Girl' act before all you hooligans came along."

Sylar frowned as the man directed him to walk down the aisle of tents and trailers. "Hooligans? Surely you don't underestimate Peter and me, too?"

Samuel shook his head. "Why of course not…Well, maybe Peter, but…you're a bit more powerful than him, aren't you?" he offered as way of compensation for his words.

The younger man grinned. "Try astronomically." He was the only one in on the joke.

Neither had hardly noticed Lydia was trailing them, the permanently angry expression scratched into her features. "Peter shouldn't be disrespected," she hissed softly. "He's a great hero."

Sylar turned sharply on her, hand in the air prepared to smack her cheek. Lydia showed no visible response. She merely met his furious eyes and smirked.

"Sorry you don't measure up," she teased, "Gabriel."

Both were surprised as it wasn't Sylar's hand to sting her face but rather Samuel's forceful strength which threw her to the ground.

Her head remained twisted sideways, her fingers slowly creeping up to brush the red mark tentatively.

Sylar's hand fell to his side as he stared at the man with incredulous eyes.

Samuel was no longer smiling, his brow in a deep ridges as he spat the words at Lydia, "You…will respect…every member of this family...You hear me?"

She didn't move, but they both saw her nod.

Before he could even think of a response, the carnie was off again, bustling quickly now towards a destination he was unaware of. Sylar quickly pursued.

"What makes you assume I'm part of this family?" he called to Samuel as he abruptly stopped in front of a tent…where three copies of the same burly, black-haired man stood before it at different angles, arms crossed and mean scowl to match.

"Because Sylar," he replied smoothly, nodding to one of the three copies, who nodded in return and moved out of the way. "I have an offer you simply can't refuse."

As they slid inside the tent, a small lantern hanging above them gave him a view.

There were boxes. Everywhere. Full of clown hair, glass bottles, ropes, plastic flowers…anything ridiculous a carnie might possibly need.

And in the middle of it was Claire tied up to that other woman.

They both had passed out, leaning back against each other's shoulders, though Claire was significantly smaller than her partner.

Sylar's brow furrowed, looking to Samuel.

"Didn't I just say you shouldn't underestimate her?"

The older man returned the gaze, lips grinning crookedly. "I'm doing nothing of the sort, Gabriel," he answered swiftly. "I'm only testing your resolve."

He was bewildered. How could this loony tune make less and less sense with every word he spoke?

Suddenly, one of the clones appeared from nowhere, brushing past them with a knife.

He watched as he cut Claire's bonds as well as her friend's.

They were both startled awake.

The clone dissipated in the air, dropping the cutlery to the floor.

The woman clambered weakly over to an unconscious Peter Sylar had failed to notice, taking his head in her lap lovingly, brushing the grime off of his face.

Claire stared back at them, eyes wide and alert as she waited for their next move.

Samuel lifted his hands, and a mixture of dirt, rocks, and mud rose steadily, ominously.

His face looked less comical, more serious as he met the ex-cheerleader's eyes.

"I'm sorry it has to be this way, Claire."

She seemed befuddled until the dirt started swirling around her slowly. She hopped to her feet, ready to run, but Samuel merely flicked his wrist, and she sank ankle deep into the mush below her. She couldn't budge.

Panic crept over her features, but more powerful than that was her hatred.

Pure, unadulterated hatred. For both of them.

Sylar just watched in fascination as the vortex of dirt enveloped her.

He was unconcerned at first; he'd learned somewhere along the wretched way that she couldn't feel anymore.

But that unknown woman screamed for her.

And strangely enough, he heard her screams burst through the wall of earth between them.

Growing louder with each spin.

More agonized. More in pain.

He stared, and for the first time since he had become something more than a man and less than human, Sylar was entirely dumbstruck.

She was crying for someone, _anyone_ to save her.

* * *

**P.S. This is officially the farthest I've ever gotten in a story! Hooray! Thanks for sticking with me! ;)**


	9. Incarceration

**Author shenanigans: Hey guys! So it was brought to my attention that at the end of the last chapter, it was confusing as to what was going on because I kept saying 'she' when I was talking about two different women. So to clarify, Emma is off in the corner (as I mention at the beginning of this chapter) with Peter who's still K.O. and Claire's stuck in the dirt tornado vortex thing that Samuel creates and she's screaming 'cause it hurts like hell and Emma's screaming because she's helpless to help Claire. Does that make any sense now? Message me if it doesn't. I may or may not go back and fix that. If I ever feel motivated enough. **

**So this chapter was a pain in the ass because I really wanted Sylar's motivations to make sense 'cause in the show, they never do. Like ever. So let me know what you think about that and...**

**Thanks so much for reviews, alerts, favorites, etc! Really, thanks. I feel so happy when I know you guys like the stuff I'm putting out there. If you ever want me to read a story of yours, just let me know, and I will. :)**

**...That's it. I think. **

* * *

_Chapter 9. Incarceration_

* * *

All she sensed was the tingling at first, the sensation that she should feel something but didn't.

Then it started to itch like she imagined a mosquito bite would—she wasn't entirely sure since no mosquito had ever really affected her.

But, then…then it started to burn.

Claire was certain she was on fire, and nobody was doing anything to rescue her.

* * *

"Samuel!" Sylar shouted over the whizz of dirt and grime and that strange woman's accented voice. She was against the tent wall with her beloved Peter, crying for her friend. He wanted to scoff. "What point are you trying to prove?"

The man grinned, a glint in his eyes that made even Sylar pause for a moment.

"She's your prize," he explained, hands tremulous with his efforts. "You're at a carnival, after all."

He shook his head, confused and torn between stopping the crazed carnie or letting him be. What did he want from him anyway? Did he want him to save her? Did he want him to kill her?

Her screams pushed him over an edge he didn't know he had.

"What do you want?"

Samuel furrowed his brows. "What was that? What did you say?"

Sylar growled, aggravated with the manipulative bastard. But, for the time being, he swallowed his vanity. "I said what do you want, Samuel?"

His smile twitched. "The better question is…what do _you_ want, Sylar?" He glanced to his masterpiece of swirling earth. "Do you want her…to spend the rest of your life with you…probably hating you or…" He turned his gaze back to Sylar, his twisted enjoyment drained from his face. "Or do you want to rid yourself of the nuisance now?"

Sylar's mouth was agape, a question on his tongue that he couldn't form.

Lydia had told him his deepest desire: to not die alone as a certain time traveler had so kindly predicted for him.

But…what reason did he have to rescue her? He wouldn't gain much except one ferociously angry ex-cheerleader and maybe her reluctant gratitude, if that was even possible considering what he'd done to her and her family.

But…perhaps…

Perhaps she was the answer to his desire?

Lydia had claimed so with the inky image of Claire Bennett encrypted to her veins.

A cry for her uncle fell from the very girl's lips, and Sylar was brought back to reality.

"I want her," he breathed, barely audible above the ruckus.

Samuel perked up his ears. "What was that, Sylar? What do you want?"

"I want _her_," he growled, voice growing in rage with each passing second at the carnie's antics. "She's mine; leave her be."

The elder man's smirk crinkled his cheeks. "Well, that's good because my offer I told you about," he proclaimed, "involves Miss Bennett. And your services towards my greater cause."

Sylar was struck for just a moment before he chuckled to himself, staring at the man as though he were a child. "You think you can enlist me in…whatever operation you have going on?" He outright laughed. "That's a good one, Samuel."

On that note, he took a step forward, prepared to telekinetically freeze the scumbag and charge in for Claire's rescue. However, that didn't happen. As soon as his foot touched the ground, it sank low into it as though it was quicksand, and his other foot quickly followed. He gasped but swiftly regained composure as he turned to arch a brow at Samuel. Directing his eyes to his sunken feet, he willed them to move and for the earth to sift apart speck by speck.

But, nothing happened.

Alarm passed through him, and as he looked back to a smirking Samuel, he glared.

"What the hell is this?"

The carnie laughed, amused at the younger man's confusion and anger.

"What does it matter, my boy?" he exclaimed grandly. "All that matters is what's happening right now…and right now, Claire Bennett is about to disintegrate to dust."

Sylar snarled viciously. "You son of a bitch!" he cursed as he struggled to move, but he was rooted to the spot. He was completely, absolutely, and utterly helpless save the one thing Samuel had offered. "What do you want?"

The man grinned, victorious. "Like I said, I want you to help my cause."

"And what would that be?"

He paused, contemplative for a fraction of a second. "A homeland, for people like us."

Sylar chortled hollowly. "You mean sociopaths?" He couldn't resist the jest.

Samuel smiled darkly, shaking his head. "No…people with powers…I'm making a safe place for them in the world."

Sylar was quiet even as the motion continued around him, even as Claire continued dying and her friend continued screaming and her uncle continued dreaming.

He didn't want to be manipulated, and he knew that giving in would be just that.

But then again…what if it helped in his own personal cause…for Claire?

What if she saw that he wasn't all bad?

Maybe she'd be willing to help him after all.

"Okay," Sylar admonished with defiant eyes and clenched fists. "I'll do it."

"What was-"

"I'll do it, Samuel!" he exclaimed. "Just let the girl go."

Samuel won, and he was happy.

He dropped his hands, and as he did, the swirling dirt fell.

The sudden stillness and silence was more disturbing than anything Sylar had ever known.

Until the dust settled, and Claire was revealed to them.

Or what was left of her.

What wasn't charred skin was dangling muscles. Her eyes were gone, leaving gaping holes in a partially visible skull. Her clothes were tattered rags, but even the most private parts of her body that shouldn't have been seen were nothing more than dead organs, some others which were emaciated in the spaces between her ribs.

The thing that was Claire Bennett fell to the ground in a grotesque heap.

The woman in the corner began screeching at the sight.

Sylar, irritated, threw his hand up, and the woman was silenced before he mentally knocked her unconscious. He was slowly elevated to ground level as the earth grew solid beneath him. Ignoring Samuel's gaze, he edged carefully towards the body of the girl and knelt next to her. He knew the images would be burned into his memory forever. Cautiously and as gracefully as possibly, he cradled her body in his arms, but he had to pause and catch his breath as strange signals assaulted his mind.

He was reading her, and he didn't even realize it. Sylar could hear her brain as it worked desperately but sluggishly to rebuild, reconnect the tissues and then muscles. He could hear the gentle hum as it soared through to her dangling limbs.

It was the most relieving thing he'd heard in a while.

Sylar stood, careful not to disrupt the tedious process, and turned to Samuel.

"Where will I be staying?"

* * *

She saw blue skies for miles and miles as wind whipped the hair around her face.

She shouted in delight, wiggling around in the arms that held to her tightly.

He warned her in a husky voice to be careful. He could still drop her.

She told him it was okay, as long as he caught her before she hit the ground.

He grinned as lips met his.

She smiled, unable to remember the life before this perfection, this beauty.

This happiness.

Until someone began to shake her from her slumber

* * *

"Claire! Claire!"

She mumbled a reply.

"Claire! Wake up!"

"Umngdfdf…"

"What? Claire, I'm serious! I don't have much time! Wake up!"

She groaned, arching her back to stretch her newly regenerated muscles, giving them a taste of life.

"Agh! Claire, don't do that!"

She furrowed her brow. "W-why…? D-doyle?" She blearily opened her eyes and saw the vague figure of the man in the light.

"Yes, it's me…" he answered. "And…don't…just don't move…okay?"

She was confused. "Why, Doyle? What's-"

And then it hit her. She was covered in a blanket, lying on her normal pile of pillows that belonged to her tent.

But, that was it. She was only bearing a _blanket_.

"Doyle, why am I naked?"

He chuckled nervously as she carefully adjusted herself to cover any offending areas before meeting his eyes. "Well, I don't really know about that one..." he answered. "But, Claire, there's something more important than that-"

"There's something more important than the fact that I woke up naked in bed, and I don't remember why?" She felt panic flutter in her stomach. Had she done something…regrettable?

"Yes," he replied earnestly as she sat up, clutching the blanket over her chest and around her bottom. "It's about Sylar-"

Sylar.

And suddenly, it all came crashing back with great clarity.

"Is he still here?" she squeaked. "What about Peter? And Emma? Are they alright?"

"Yes, yes," Doyle replied from where he knelt next to her. "They're-"

"Fine."

His voice seemed to echo as all grew very still.

Doyle stiffly stood up, and judging by the expression on his face, it wasn't off his own accord.

Sylar in all of his smugness sauntered inside her personal tent, hand lifted signaling he was the one in control. He made his way next to Doyle. "How does it feel," he asked, "to be the puppet, Doyle?"

He lifted his pudgy nose. "I don't know. You tell me."

Sylar growled dangerously, and before he could kill him, he threw the puppet master out of the tent, drawing the flaps closed and leaving the two of them alone.

While she was naked.

Claire did not like it at _all_.

She glared up at him as he turned to meet her gaze, a grin on his face.

"Sleep well, Claire bear?" he chirped innocently as he took in her current condition. "Or did you have some more fun while I was away?"

"What fun did I have beforehand?" she questioned unable to keep the obvious concern out of her voice.

He chuckled as he looked into her thoughts, hearing the worries that maybe she'd slept with him and couldn't remember or he'd done something unmentionable. "No need to worry," he answered calmly. "I didn't touch you…Well, except to actually remove your clothes."

Claire's breath hitched in her throat.

Sylar's grin widened, reaching his eyes. It was way too much fun to freak her out.

"Not like that, Claire bear," he replied, slowly circling around her and her mound of pillows. "The sight wasn't much to see anyway, since you were half a pile of bones and muscle."

She sighed in obvious relief, which annoyed him far too much. He was behind her, admiring the expanse of her tan back before the dip of the blanket cut him off from anything more. She could feel his eyes upon her, and she shifted uncomfortably. Desperate for a turn of conversation, she quipped, "What is it exactly that you want?"

Finishing his full circle, he stood before her, smile fading. "Well, in a sense, I want you, but…" He shook his head while her nose curled in distaste. "More accurately, I guess, would be to say I want some answers, and I think you have them."

Confidence returning, she wrapped the blanket more tightly around herself and spat, "What makes you think I'd give you any answers even if I had them?"

He arched his eyebrows, an expression on his face Claire had never seen before. "I honestly don't know. Maybe I was just hoping you'd want to change me…"

She froze for several seconds, caught off guard by his blunt answer. He wanted…to change? "Why would you want to change at all?" she asked, anger rising in her voice as she thought it was just a little too late.

He heard her mind and nodded, answering it rather than her question. "I know it's too late for this life," he agreed. He lifted his gaze, locking it with hers. "But, we have several more to endure, Claire. I think it'd be in your best interests, as well as everyone else's, to help me."

She was silent, motionless as she stared at him. Was this the same Sylar she'd fought the night before? Was this even the same human being? Yes, she told herself. It was. It was the same man. Evidence of that was everywhere, particularly in the smirk he wore as he walked in. He was the same bastard who killed her father, not to mention her mother, and had probably done in countless other parents, brothers, sisters, aunts, and uncles.

And she had sworn to kill him.

She frowned, narrowing her eyes as she rolled herself to her knees and then rose to her feet. Holding the blanket in place, it barely reached over her thighs, and though she felt uncomfortable being this bare to him, especially with his eyes sliding up and down her body as they were, she stood with a silent fury that she threw at him with heavy, roiling waves.

"Like I've said before," she seethed, "I will kill you…no matter how many lifetimes it takes me, you will be dead in one of them."

Sylar nodded slowly, nonchalant to her threat. "Well, like I've said before, too," he replied, "everybody needs a hobby."

They met eyes, she defiantly angry and he unreadable.

He looked away.

"Speaking of hobbies, your costume's hanging on that mirror…Lydia brought that in for you." He pointed to the opposite side of the tent, and there stood a full length mirror on plain wooden stilts and dangling from it, a skimpy black leotard bedazzled with rhinestones and several other garment pieces on a hangar. She turned back to him, bewildered. He smirked. "You're the new Indestructible Girl. Congratulations."

She didn't seem amused. "I can't leave?"

His lips pressed into a thin line; he recognized the hopelessness in her voice. He felt it. "Nope. As of now, you're stuck in this hellhole of cotton candy and dazzling lights with the rest of us."

Her brow was squished together, still uncomprehending. "What about you? You're not stuck…are you?"

He clenched his jaw. Damn it, he was not stuck. He was not, he was not, he was not-

"You're bald, by the way," he settled on answering.

The way her eyes grew several inches wider was worth all the hysterics he was about to encounter. She scrambled over to the mirror, hand rubbing over the peach fuzz of blonde hair that was in the process of restoring itself.

"WHAT THE F-"

He laughed loudly as he slipped out of the tent, content to hear her uncontrollable shrieks of rage.

* * *

**So...I don't know if that last part was totally in character but...it was too funny to pass up. The idea popped in my head, and I was like, "Hell yes! Bald Cheerleaders! HOT!" **

**Ha. Just kidding. So let me know what you think! Thanks so much for sticking with me this far and reading! **


	10. Negotiation

**Author shenanigans: So I have many things to apologize for. First, my disappearance. I could tell you I was kidnapped by foreign spies, shipped to Antarctica, and transformed into the next Terminator via robotic experimentation, but I don't think that would fly so well. Actually, life just got really busy for a while. A long while. School, job, finals, extracurricular activities kind of put this story on the backburner. And I'm sorry. Plus, as I was reviewing my old chapters to make sure this chapter is as consistent as possible, I realized my dividers that I had put in place when perspectives shift or I go to a dream sequence or something didn't work and were not present. So I am sorry if that confused anyone. I will probably not fix it. Sorry. **

**And I'm done! So, here's the next chapter. I shouldn't be too long in updating the next one as I have already written half of it. I'm sorry if this isn't consistent/not as good/didn't live up to your expectations/wasn't worth the wait. It's another bridge chapter to more action-y stuff. **

**Okay. Done. Thank you for sticking with me, reviewing, reading, etc. I really, really appreciate, and I will try to reciprocate with more updates!**

* * *

_Chapter 10. Negotiation_

* * *

Emma was not a morning person.

It had always been one of her least favorite times of the day because she never woke to the sounds of birds chirping or an annoying alarm clock, never woke in the arms of a lover...

Until now.

She heard the quiet rustling of some passersby and some laughter.

She smiled. Then, she felt the warm solid body behind her, arms wrapped around her middle, the deep scent of cologne filling her nostrils.

However, she also felt the hand groping her chest in a rather intimate way.

She gasped, and that's when Peter woke with a start, realizing his position and practically rocketing to the opposite side of the tent they'd been confined to in seconds. Poor Emma remained on the ground confused as can be.

"Oh Jesus, Emma, I'm sorry. I didn't...I didn't even mean to-" he stumbled over his words, face a bright tomato red as he refused to meet her gaze. (Geez, this is why he never had sex. EVER.)

First, she was shocked and a little nervous, feeling that they had taken a step too far, whether it was intentional or not. Then, though, she observed his tinged face, his jittery hands and obvious guilt, and she couldn't help but to smile. Emma slowly stood up, careful to take steps towards him. She took each of his hands in hers, soothing them with gentle rubbing. He stared at the gesture unable to speak. She slithered her arms around him and hugged her head to his chest.

"It's okay," she whispered as he cautiously returned her affections. "It was an accident."

He released a sigh of relief. "I'm sorry." And kissed her head.

She grinned. "I know."

They were quiet for a while, locked in an embrace that they didn't want to end.

Sadly, it had to.

"We have to go find Claire," Emma murmured softly.

"Claire," Peter repeated, a spark in his memory ignited as he pulled away from her. "Emma, what Samuel said last night about me and Claire..."

She lifted a hand, stopping him before he could start. "I know. She explained everything."

He nodded, brow furrowed. "And?"

"It's okay," she answered. "Now let's go find your niece."

Peter was still confounded. "What happened to her last night?"

Emma grimaced, remembering all too well. "You don't want to know."

* * *

Claire had to admit it: she was kind of hot.

She stood with her hands on her hips, gazing at her reflection in the mirror. Her hair had thankfully grown back to a decent length, and with nothing else to wear in the vicinity, she threw on the garment Sylar had left for her. It shouldn't have surprised her that it was a skimpy thing coming from the creep, but the outfit left _very _little to the imagination.

She wore fishnet tights and tight leather boots that reach mid-thigh. If that wasn't bad enough, her upper half was only covered by a black leotard with v-neck slit that almost showed her belly button, and her entire back was revealed, only covering her bottom. There were decorative rhinestones all over and matching gloves that she slid on and to top it all off, a pin-striped fedora.

She felt very burlesque, sexy almost...No, no, no, Claire told herself. Not sexy. Not cute even. Just gross. She'd have to parade around in the getup for an unprecedented amount of time, stuck at the stupid carnival and forced to perform for ogling eyes. This outfit was NOT a good thing. Nope. No. Not at all.

And yet, Claire couldn't help but to strike a few poses, imagining the announcer.

"_Presenting...the INDESTRUCTIBLE GIIIIRRRRLLLLL!"_

She lifted her arms in presentation, taking a low bow. She smiled to her make believe audience.

Her stomach replied with a loud growl. When had she last eaten?

Claire scanned the room for something, anything else to clothe herself with, refusing to sit before Sylar or Samuel or anyone else in the outfit for breakfast. However there was no other clothing in her tent. She tightened her fists. Stupid bastard took her clothes.

Her stomach continuing to bother her and a newfound anger to follow, she exited her tent, heading towards the large dining area.

* * *

There were many things no one knew about Sylar.

That he still listened to clocks and watches, mentally fixing them in his head.

That he wasn't very fond of coffee but actually preferred tea.

And that, despite all childish stereotypes, he loved waffles, which is why after harassing Claire had put him in a good mood, he was almost ecstatic at the sight of waffles on the long dining table with all the carnies crowded around it, smiling, chattering, joking, except when his presence became known.

All grew still, quiet, except for Samuel's grinning face at the head of the table.

"Sylar!" he exclaimed cheerfully, jolting everyone. "Come join us!" He gestured to a seat beside him, and Sylar followed the prompting, sliding onto the bench while a pale young woman clad in black shied away from him to the side. He tried to ignore the stiffness with which everyone moved thereafter, but it was a hard thing to not notice.

Suddenly, Sylar felt exhausted. All the weight of the night's events fell on him (car chasing, being killed by Samuel, making out with Lydia, rescuing Claire...), and his shoulders visibly sagged. He couldn't believe how much had happened in one day. He remembered exactly how he felt 24 hours ago: angry, bloodthirsty, vengeful. But, now, after Lydia told him he didn't want to be alone and showed him the tattoo on her arm, everything had shifted. It wasn't even a huge shift, just a tiny one, like the earth was tilted a little to the left, snapping everything into a different perspective.

And now, he was tired.

"Would you please pass me some waffles?" he asked the girl next to him.

The fear in her eyes was just slightly amusing as her shaking hands found the waffle plate and slowly offered it to him. He smiled as politely as he knew how and gave himself a heavy serving, dousing his breakfast in syrup. He paid no heed to Samuel, who aimlessly rambled at him about the carnival and the day's festivities. He ignored the long stares and a few glares. He tuned out the whispering.

That is, until it wasn't directed at him.

Sylar happened to look up and see every head turned to the opposite end of the table, where Claire stood, hands on her hips looking quite defiant.

And, he had to add as he eyed her up and down, she was looking _quite _attractive.

Especially with her furious gaze on him.

He smirked, feeling a little less extinguished.

"Something wrong, Claire bear?"

He enjoyed how her lip curled ever so slightly in disgust. He was also relieved that something had carried on with him from the previous day: his absolute joy in tormenting Claire.

"Where the hell did you put all my clothes?" she snapped.

He chuckled, wiping his lips with a napkin to hide his grin. "Well, Claire, I had to make some space for myself, seeing as how we're going to be roomies and all-"

The way her green eyes grew to saucers was classic. Her mouth hung open as though she planned to say something but couldn't figure how to form the words. She turned to Samuel in her desperation, who to her misfortune was just as amused as Sylar.

"Samuel...you can't be serious...surely that's against some sort of..." She grasped for anything. "...code of honor?"

Samuel's smile became thin lipped as he felt a twinge of guilt for placing her in the situation—but it was only a twinge. "Sorry, Claire," he offered, raising his hands and shrugging. "We made a deal...and you happened to be the main negotiation."

Sylar couldn't contain his laughter as Claire's face grew red with fury. He knew she would hate being referred to as some sort of property, and he delighted in it. She was practically shaking, which only made him picture a chihuahua, which then became her Pomeranian, making the scene even more humorous to him.

Of course, his fun had to come to an end.

"Claire!"

The shout of relief was from the concerned uncle himself as he trotted up behind Claire, Emma in tow. He wrapped her in an overbearingly protective hug, subsiding her anger, but as he pulled away and took in her clothing, she was quickly reminded.

"Claire, what the hell are you wearing?" he quipped, shrugging off his jacket and throwing it over her skimpy attire. Claire gratefully took it, hugging the article closer to her body, suddenly feeling more uncomfortable than she had the entire morning.

"I'm the Indestructible Girl," was her only answer.

Bewildered, Peter turned to the audience of carnies before his eyes focused on his enemy. They grew ten shades darker, hands curling into fists while Sylar smiled flirtatiously and gave a little wave. Samuel immediately sensed the tension and rose.

"Now, children, children, it's breakfast time," he proclaimed, gesturing for Peter to calm himself. "Let's all just sit down and have a bite before we get into any of that business." He motioned to carnies on either side of him, and they swiftly took their breakfasts elsewhere, clearing space for the newcomers. Hesitantly, Claire, Peter, and Emma glanced at another before taking their seats next to Samuel and across from Sylar.

"Good kids," Samuel chirped as he sat down, taking a bite of waffles to end the discussion.

"All that fighting and not a scratch on ya, Pete," Sylar commented as Peter was reluctantly attempting to graciously receive his breakfast across from his arch nemesis. "I'm relieved actually. I wouldn't want to mar that perfect complexion."

"Would you shut up?" Claire bit back, irritated as she slammed waffles onto her plate. "Can't we enjoy waffles in peace?"

Sylar barely heard her words as the jacket she wore fell open, revealing a large portion of her body to him. She followed his eyes and blushed, hugging the protection tighter around her. He smirked, enjoying her squirming.

"Say Pete, did Claire tell you we're going to be sharing a tent?" he questioned. Peter visibly stiffened as Sylar's grin widened. "Yeah. It's all part of the deal of me staying here."

Peter nearly snarled. "You will not lay a hand on her or I swear-"

"What, Pete? Jealous much?"

And just as abruptly as the quiet, chaos ensued.

Peter leapt across the table with a loud yell, hands wrapping around Sylar's neck. Claire and Emma were both on their feet in seconds. Peter was on top of Sylar, fingers wringing the breath from him. The girls stood watching, unsure of how to act while Samuel simply rolled his eyes, but made no comment, letting Peter to choke the man.

"You son of bitch..." he muttered. "I don't know what deal you made, and I don't care. You will not be _anywhere_ near my niece as long as I am around to kick your ass."

Sylar, though he couldn't breathe, laughed. Actually laughed.

But, it was Samuel who replied.

"Be careful what you wish for, Peter."

That was a distraction enough for Peter to loosen his grip, but as he looked back at Sylar, who was still cackling like a hyena, he clenched his jaw tightly, leaning in to growl, "Stay away from her." And with that, he let him go, standing and returning to his family.

Sylar quickly rebounded and found his seat to finish his waffles, still happy as a clam.

Samuel followed suit. "Well, now that that's done with, let's eat!"

* * *

It was late evening as Peter wandered through the carnival, which was still brilliant with colors and boisterous with the sounds of screaming and laughter. So much had taken place in one day, he wasn't quite sure how to absorb it.

First, there was the breakfast fiasco, which of course ended with him bitterly stuffing waffles in his mouth. Then, he was assigned a trailer to share with Emma (to their blustering embarrassment) which Samuel claimed was their "personal hospitality for as long as they chose to stay." At which point, Claire pulled him aside and filled him in on some important information.

"I don't trust Samuel," she had whispered in the confines of his trailer. "There's something off about him. You should be careful."

"Claire, then let's leave," Peter had replied earnestly. "You can just leave, maybe go away with my mom for a while or something."

"No, Peter," she snapped. "I'm not running." And though she tried, she couldn't hide the fear in her voice. "Regardless, I don't think that leaving is an option for me anymore..."

His brow furrowed. "And why not?"

Her lip trembled. "We know Samuel and Sylar made some kind of deal involving me. There's only two other things I know: the deal had something to do with Sylar working for Samuel, but it also had to do with Sylar basically...getting me."

He released a long steady breath. "Claire, that's not going to stop me-"

She shook her head. "But it will get you killed. Peter, you're my hero, and I love you. I'm not going to let you throw yourself out there to the most powerful superhuman wolves on the planet."

And their argument had ended.

Peter hadn't been able to find Sylar afterward, which was probably a good thing, so now he had to turn to Samuel.

He knocked on the carney's trailer door, and after some rustling and a crash, the man appeared looking as mystical as ever. He bore a huge grin. "Hello Peter! Come in, come in!"

Peter followed him inside, closing the door behind him. Samuel cleared an area of a small shabby table and pulled up folding chairs. Peter took one and waited as Samuel took the other.

"Something you need to talk about, Peter?" he asked, heading straight for the point.

"Claire," Peter answered. "I'm leaving tomorrow morning, and I'm taking her with me."

Samuel still looking as kindly as ever abruptly stood. "Ah! Where are my manners?" he exclaimed. "Can I get you anything to drink?"

Peter gave him the deadliest, filthiest, most rotten look he could muster.

"...I take that as a no."

"No," Peter snarled.

"Easy boy," Samuel retorted heaving a long sigh as he sat rubbing his temples while he contemplated. "Look, Peter, the thing is Claire is a valuable to the carnival, and I'd really like to at least keep her around for a few acts, so she can get a taste of what she could have."

Peter arched an eyebrow, disbelieving every word. "And Sylar has nothing to do with this?"

"Oh he does," Samuel answered. "Yes. See, I also have a goal in mind, and Sylar can help me reach that goal. Claire is something he wants that happened to be under my wing at the time, so he took the offer."

"She's not a piece of property," he spat. "She's my niece."

"I know, I know," he replied. "And I wouldn't dream of treating her as anything else. But right now, we need her for our cause."

"And what cause is that?"

Samuel grinned easily, so sure of his next sentence.

"To save the world, Peter."

There was a pause for consideration.

Samuel had thrown the bait, but Peter didn't bite.

"We're leaving tomorrow. And she will be staying in my trailer."

He rose, satisfied and ready to leave, but Samuel reacted quicker. Before he knew it, Peter was slammed against the wall, feet several inches of the ground as Samuel held him up by his neck. He gagged, unable to breathe.

"Listen," Samuel whispered, all traces of the kind warmth gone, leaving nothing but the cold carney. "I don't think you realize that Sylar is the only thing standing between Claire and her death. She's an asset to the cause but an expendable one. And if you do anything to hurt my cause, I'll kill her. And your little girlfriend."

Peter was sputtering, his words burning his ears.

And suddenly his world went dark.

* * *

**Thanks for reading and please review!**


	11. Situation

**Author shenanigans: I know. I suck at updating again. And this chapter is kind of short. But I have lots and lots of ideas for the next chapter to get the story moving. So it will probably be longer. **

**Not much more to say except thanks for sticking with me and for all the reviews, favorites, alerts, etc. I really, really appreciate them. **

**Oh yeah. And the character Damian shows up in this story now. You probably won't remember him (I definitely did not.) but he was the creepy guy with dreads that showed Sylar his memories in the house of mirrors. Yeah. That creeper is here now. **

**Okay. Enjoy!**

* * *

_Chapter 11. Situation_

* * *

Claire felt frozen.

In time, in space, in life.

She felt like she couldn't move, she couldn't even breathe.

Her feet were glued to the ground, her lungs like rubber.

All this she felt—like the world was caving in—as she stood outside her tent.

The day had gone as well as it could after breakfast. She'd practiced her supposed act, and accepted that she would be stuck at a place she could never call home for a while.

She had thought she'd come to terms with the fear and disgust of being in the same room as Sylar, but seeing how her heart palpitations were at an erratic rate, she was wrong.

Peter and Emma were no where to be found. She was on her own.

She took a deep breath and stepped inside.

He was there. Asleep. On her mound of pillows, which in essence was her bed.

Shirtless. Gross.

She shivered despite her new attire (a skirt and tank top she'd borrowed from Lydia) and threw her previous outfit at her feet, frustration striking her like a match. Stupid bastard comes to the carnival, beats her uncle, takes her clothes, and now he's sleeping on her bed?

Claire released a long, heavy sigh, and though she longed to lay on the soft comfort of pillows and curl up in a blanket, she couldn't bring herself to go anywhere near him. She walked along the edge of the tent, and she found the wall farthest from him whereupon she watched him carefully. It was strange to see him so...what was the word for not being a complete asshole and killing everyone she knew?

Oh. Vulnerable.

Yes, it was strange to see him so susceptible to hurt, to pain.

Then, he chuckled.

"Don't think I ever let my guard down, Claire," he murmured groggily.

She gasped. "Y-you...heard my...head?"

He laughed, rolling over to look at her. "Yes. I did."

She blinked slowly as she sunk to her bottom, sitting on the dirt. "So Matt Parkman is..."

"Dead, yes."

Claire closed her eyes, holding back the look of horror, and though she found it hard to believe in God, she sent a small prayer for the police officer His way.

"No one's there, Claire," he prodded with a roll of his eyes. "That God or Allah or anyone else...He's not there."

"What's it to you then if I pray?" she murmured, meeting his penetrating gaze. "Maybe He is, and maybe He isn't. Better safe than sorry."

He chortled once more. "Spoken like a true good little Christian girl."

"Just shut the hell up."

The buzz of the carnival filled the silence that ensued, but not for very long.

"Why me?"

Sylar, who had been slipping back into slumber, glanced in Claire's direction and slowly sat up. "Pardon?"

She hugged her knees to her chest, eyes intent on his face, burning through him if it were possible. "Why me? Why'd you pick me?" she asked, anger trickling in each syllable. "You've taken everything of mine. _Everything_. What more do you want from me?"

His gentle chuckle, though it was genuine was more bitter than he'd expected. "Because, Claire, we're going to live forever," he replied, leaving out all of the other parts about Hiro Nakamura's promise that he'll die alone and Lydia's answer that he didn't want to. "And because you and I have a...history that isn't so great, I figured now is as good a time as ever to start mending the rifts between us."

Her snort was almost as irritating as the tight smirk on her face. "And somehow killing my uncle was a part of the plan? And Matt Parkman? And God knows who else..."

"I had no plan before," he admitted with slight reluctance. Her quirked eyebrow signalled her disbelief, and for some reason, he felt compelled to explain to her. "I was angry. I wanted to get back at the people that stuck me in your father's body."

Her confusion swiftly switched to fury with her mercurial temper. "Do _not_ even speak about him," she hissed.

Sylar ground his teeth, annoyed with her uncanny ability to pin him down on his every wrong, but continued on with his story. "Claire, I don't think you understand," he added. "I didn't put myself in his body as some huge scheme to take over the world or even just to screw with all of you." He saw the way her eyes teared up, but he ignored it. "Matt Parkman did it. He wiped my memory, made me think I was Nathan." He took a deep breath. "I genuinely believed I was your father, Peter's brother, Angela's son-"

Claire shook her head, furious. "You still killed him!" she cried, brushing away at the forming tears. "You still took Nathan away from me!" They were quiet for several moments as Claire tried to steady her breathing. Her mind was spinning as Sylar continued to add to the bewilderment and hurt within it. She was trying to connect the dots, make the picture that would make sense. Nathan's death, Sylar's reappearance. Dot to dot. Matt Parkman's death, Peter's attack, all for Sylar's revenge. Dot to dot. But then, a deal with Samuel to have her as his own...No connection.

"Why didn't you just take me?"

His head perked up. He'd been ignoring her thoughts, too caught up in his own, so he didn't catch on. "What?"

"If you wanted me so badly you could have just taken me from here," she supplied. "You didn't need to make a deal with Samuel to get me. You could have just taken me. Unless..."

Her eyes widened, and he clenched his jaw, as he listened in on her head once more. She'd figured some part of the puzzle out, even without the knowledge that he had rescued her and how.

"Samuel's more powerful than you, isn't he?"

His silence and narrowed eyes were more than an answer.

She gasped, the light bulb going off. "That's why you've promised to work for him. Because you couldn't get me because he's more powerful."

He didn't reply. She had some major pieces missing, such as Samuel didn't care at all about her and more about Sylar's power _and_ that he had saved her life, but he held it all in. Better to let her run under that assumption than any other.

And with that, Sylar rolled over wrapping a blanket around himself.

Claire watched, mouth hanging open. It was true. Sylar wasn't the strongest person in the world. Samuel was. But how? And was she really worth it?

She realized the key to her answer.

"What happened last night? After you and Peter fought? I can't remember past-"

She didn't know, but as his light snoring filled the tent, she decided to not disturb him further.

She curled into a ball on the ground, refusing to share a bed, and drifted into an uncomfortable sleep.

* * *

Their lips meet in a perfect dance, a tango that could not be taught.

He was on her, in her, around her, inside her, over her, under her.

He was everywhere.

She cried for pain, for love, for joy.

For him.

He'd never known such beauty, and he held tightly to it, for fear it would leave him.

He couldn't let that happen. He would fight like hell to make love stay.

* * *

Emma did not often cry over boys, mostly because she had little experience with them.

Being deaf wasn't exactly what got men all hot and bothered.

But, when Peter never came to their trailer that night, she burst into tears.

It was an overload, she assumed. Stress, fear, hurt. All adding up from the past few days.

It took her hours to stop, and when she finally did, she was too exhausted to lift her head let alone her whole body. She fell into a fitful snooze full of nightmares, where Peter was standing at a distance, in a white light, but by the time she reached him, his face had been slashed clean across, and his eyes looked dead.

She woke screaming several times until she finally gave in and rose from her bed.

It must have been early morning, as she could see a hazy light in the distance outside. The carnival was deathly quiet, and she stepped lightly through dirt and patches of dewy grass. Her mind ran in circles like a track, unable to remember where it started and completely unclear of where the finish line was. Peter seemed to be the only common thought.

Suddenly, she was thrown out of her reverie when the presence of a leathery dark skinned man was before her, seemingly out of thin air. Emma jumped from fright, hand clutching her chest. His ragged long dreads and glazed eyes made her shiver still.

"Wh-who are you?" she stuttered.

He was silent for several meticulous seconds, examining her. "My name is Damian," he finally answered in a gravelly voice, one that seemed as worn as his skin. "And you..." He took small steps closer, and Emma feared to move. "...You are the Siren..."

Her brows furrowed as she hugged herself tightly in what she convinced herself was the morning chill. "Ex-excuse me?"

He gave her a sinister lopsided grin. "You are searching for the boy, yeah?"

She cautiously nodded.

"He is your love?"

"Well..." Emma hesitated. "I hope so..."

"Then follow me," he commanded, and he turned away as if there was no time for consideration.

She knew she probably shouldn't. She could just imagine Peter telling her to get the hell away from the man.

But Peter wasn't there.

Emma quickly scampered after him.

* * *

He had known every kind of pain.

Physical. Mental. Emotional.

The kind that's just a scrape of the knee. The kind that rips your whole leg off.

Peter Petrelli had known all kinds of pain.

But nothing, absolutely _nothing _compared to this.


	12. Damnation

**Author's shenanigans: Oh wow. I've been gone for so long. I feel terrible. I'm sorry, guys. I just got incredibly busy and completely forgot about this stuff. But, I am determined to finish this story. I hope this chapter isn't too bad with limited editing since I just really wanted to finish it and put it on here. **

**Okay so a quick SUMMARY to bring everyone back up to speed if you don't remember what's happened ('cause I even forgot and I wrote the thing): This takes place after "The Fifth Stage." Claire stayed at the carnival. Peter, Emma, and Noah were on the way to come get her because Sylar's on the loose again. Sylar is meanwhile very pissed and trying to kill them all for taking his body. But at the carnival when he and Peter confront one another, Samuel puts it down, and we learn Samuel is more powerful than Sylar. Sylar has that rendezvous with Lydia where she tells him he doesn't want to die alone. Then, Samuel threatens to kill Claire unless Sylar works for him. So Sylar agrees. Peter and Emma are still there, together. Last chapter, Peter disappeared though, and Emma followed the crazy dreads guy to the House of Mirrors which is where we pick up. She can hear, by the way, because Claire's blood healed her.**

**I think those are the major points. Sorry if you're confused. Just message me if you have difficulties. I'll explain. **

**Thanks so much for all the reviews, alerts, favorites, etc! I'm so amazed anyone's bothered at this point. But thank you. I really appreciate it. **

**And onward!**

* * *

_Chapter 12. Damnation_

* * *

Emma wasn't stupid.

No. Really. She wasn't.

She knew after watching all the horror movies, the smart thing to do was not run upstairs when there's an ax murderer below. Or to go looking in the basement by yourself for that strange tapping you heard. Or to go home with charming men from bars. All the above trap you.

And yet Emma, against her better instincts, followed the weathered old man up a small set of stairs into the self-proclaimed 'House of Mirrors.' There was a short, dank corridor that led to a lighter open room full of...mirrors. Emma's reflections stared back at her, and she had to wonder when she had gained such a haunted look in her eyes.

The thought could not be pondered as Damian turned around, his gaze steady and somehow deep.

"I'm afraid the boy you love suffers greatly," he murmured with a calmness that put Emma's nerves on the edge of a razor blade. "I'm not sure there's much of him left."

"What are you talking about?" she asked with feigned confidence. "Take me to Peter now!"

The man sighed. "I cannot take you to him." Emma tensed. "But I can show him to you."

Her lips trembled. He was waiting for her consent, and though she knew she would regret it, she nodded.

He returned the gesture, and without a word, he disappeared beyond the mirrors. Emma almost followed, bewildered by his behavior until a dancing light in her peripherals made her turn.

And there in the mirror she no longer saw her frightened face.

She saw Peter's.

A clean, bloody cut stretching from one temple to the opposite jaw.

She fell to her knees, tremulous and afraid.

He was screaming but there was no sound.

It was like being deaf. A boisterous and colorful film that she couldn't hear.

Silently, she watched as Peter was tortured near to death.

* * *

Why is there evil?

How many angels can dance on the head of a pin?

...How do we make love stay?

* * *

Claire woke to the sound of a steady drum.

It had a perfect rhythm.

_Thump-thump...thump-thump...thump-thump..._

So strong. It was like a lullaby, and she didn't want to even open her eyes. It would ruin the magic and the gentle lull of the beat.

That is, until she realized she had a pillow.

And that pillow was a very solid chest. Which belonged to a body.

And that body was controlled by a monster.

Her eyes snapped open, and as soon as she glanced up to see her entire form was being cradled by Sylar's long limbs, she was tripping over the pillows to get as far away as possible. The disappearance of the warmth caused Sylar to stir, and just as he groggily opened his eyes, he caught the flapping of the tent as Claire exited.

He groaned. Something told him she wouldn't exactly be grateful he had moved her from the dirt to the bed in her sleep. But, she was so loud, tossing and turning and moaning and sometimes crying, he couldn't rest either. It was amazing how as soon as her laid her on the pillows and tucked a blanket around her body, she stilled and her breathing became even as she cutely snuggled her face into the fluff. He had sighed and taken his previous spot, putting a respectable distance between them.

It certainly was not Sylar's fault Claire had wiggled her way over to him in the dark.

But again, he didn't think this small detail would matter much to her at all.

He threw on his shirt and shoes and was quickly following her. She hadn't gotten very far and with some short pacing, he caught up to her stride.

"Claire, listen, I-"

It was almost fantastic how swiftly she whirled around to face him, fist in tow as it swung out and high and landed squarely on his nose.

Damn. For such a tiny human, she packed a hard punch. Then again, she didn't have to worry about the fact that her wrist snapped from the impact.

Sylar grunted for a moment, clutching his bloodied nose but never breaking his gaze with Claire.

She said nothing, but her eyes were an incredible shade of green. God, he felt hypnotized by them; they were so intense, trying to communicate so many things at once. He didn't know how they could handle it.

She was embarrassed and irritated about what happened. But, she was also...hurt. And…ashamed.

He listened in on her thoughts, but instead of words, a series of images filled his vision.

There was her mother, sweat beading her forehead as she tried to contain the fire in her hands. The fire that he had induced. He felt Claire's fury and the gash in her heart as she remembered saying goodbye to her biological mother, only knowing her for a short time.

Then, there was Nathan, smiling his beautiful politician smile in one of those campaign speeches, waving as camera's flashed. She remembered seeing it on a television, and he felt her pride upon learning that the man was her father. A hero.

Then, he saw himself through her eyes, hovering over her body, scalp lying on the floor in her peripherals. He felt his own fingers touching her brain and the complete violation like he was taking advantage of her in a different way. He felt the fear and the certain knowledge that she was going to die.

Finally, there was this morning, waking up in his arms as though she were his lover. And he felt the guilt that she had been so close to the man who had taken those lives and abused her. He felt the inexplicable hurt that he would make her feel so terrible.

There were tears in her eyes when he left her mind. He popped his nose back into place, ignoring the stinging pain, and dropped his hands to his side.

"I'm sorry."

She trembled but said nothing and turned away.

He followed but far enough behind to give her space. He could plainly see and hear she was crying.

Geez, when had he become such a gentleman? He scoffed at himself. The old Sylar would have done much more than just drop her in bed last night. The old Sylar wouldn't have particularly cared how she felt in the morning. The old Sylar would continue to torment her as he had been doing the past few days.

…The old Sylar wouldn't have rescued her either.

He stopped in his tracks.

Maybe...maybe he just _wasn't_ the old Sylar anymore. The one Hiro Nakamura said would die alone. That one had faded away when his exhausting anger extinguished.

Maybe now there was just this Sylar that Lydia spoke of. The one that didn't want to be alone anymore. The one that craved redemption.

The thought made him very uncomfortable, like he was a teenage boy again stuck at one of those stupid pep rallies. God, he hated those things.

But, this...this was better, he guessed. While he certainly wasn't fond of being the good guy, he abhorred the look in Claire's eyes just moments ago.

For now, he would just have to run with the feeling of pros and cons. He continued to follow her.

It wasn't long along their way until they met another carnie.

Lydia. But, she seemed in distress, her eyes only for Claire as she stumbled out from between a couple of tents.

"Claire!" she panted out. "C-come! Come quickly!"

Claire, still tearful, seemed to forget her own misery as Lydia clutched her arm. "What's wrong?"

"It's Peter!"

She needn't say anything more. Claire followed, ignoring Sylar as he, too, trailed behind.

Lydia led them through a series of twists and turns, around trailers and tents. Claire was too alarmed to care, but Sylar noticed that they never passed another person along the way. It was like the carnival was deserted. How strange.

Soon enough Lydia stopped, and Claire nearly crashed into her. The came to a clearing, and Sylar stayed on its outskirts. He sensed something was very wrong, and he needed to have a full vantage point. There were rainbow-colored lights strewn above on some posts. The dirt was beat down as the area seemed to be an intersecting point for the many paths throughout the carnival. The two women stood in the middle, Lydia clutching Claire as both heard a sound that made their skin crawl.

A man. Screaming.

It came in and out of focus, as if it would draw near and then fade away.

Suddenly, Peter stumbled into the clearing, falling to his hands and knees, hacking up blood and trembling. Quickly following suit was the man with clones coming in from every direction, surrounding the group. One appeared behind Sylar and even pushed him forward. Sylar growled but held his tongue, waiting patiently for his opportunity to strike.

Except he wasn't sure who to strike. Peter? The clones?

Then, Samuel appeared.

He was every bit his natural self, smiling, fatherly even. He supported a distraught Emma on his arm as they made their way into the circle. Emma was tense, eyes wandering in every direction, looking for something in particular…

"PETER!"

She fled Samuel's side and reached Peter the moment he collapsed into her lap, exhausted. Defeated. She was whispering nonsensical things. Holding his head. Kissing it. Brushing dirt off of his shirtless body.

Sylar saw the gash ripping his face in half.

Claire did, too, as she gasped, kneeling by his side as well.

Meanwhile, Lydia and Samuel were staring intently at one another, communicating a thousand things that had Sylar bothered to listen to their thoughts, he would have understood. But, the moment was so quick, it almost did not warrant it.

"Lydia, I fear what will become of you," Samuel murmured below the ruckus of Claire's and Emma's fretting.

Her back to Sylar, he couldn't see the expression on her face, but she nodded and turned in his direction. She began walking to brush past him and stopped inches away. Her lips drew close to his ear.

"You have to save them, Gabriel," she whispered, softly, desperately. "You are their only hope against Samuel." She stepped back, meeting his gaze, the saddest smile on her face. He didn't understand. She had hated him a day before, but Sylar was quickly learning things changed by the second at the carnival. He looked into her thoughts, and he felt her placid heart beating.

She was going to die, and she knew it.

_Protect them. Peter has to save us all, but you have to protect them._

Sylar shook his head. How could he? He was a monster.

_I know what you are, Gabriel. I've seen your heart, and it is filled with darkness, yes, but you are no monster. Not anymore. _

And with her last fortune told, Lydia vanished, leaving Sylar in the circle of chaos.

Claire had stood, glaring darkly at Samuel. "What the hell did you do to him?" she cried with accusation.

Samuel was a talented actor. His grimace carefully shifted to that of guilt and desperation. "I did everything in self-defense, Claire!" he replied, hand on his chest as if the very thought hurt his heart. "He came to my trailer, attacked me! He tried to kill me! I had to stop him in any way possible before he hurt someone else!"

Peter, barely breathing, was stirred. "L…lie…" he croaked. Sylar didn't think anyone but he had heard it.

"Stop lying!" Claire screeched, lunging at Samuel with wild eyes and completely prepared to rip him to pieces. Before she reached him, a clone appeared between them, easily catching her and twisting her to pin her hands behind. She screamed in fury, anger clouding every inch of her beautiful face.

Sylar did not like where the situation was going.

Just as he was about to intervene, Samuel found his eyes and smiled. "Ah, Sylar, just the man I need!"

Sylar put on the best mask he had and stepped forward. "Yes, Samuel?"

The carnie grinned maliciously. Sylar found the expression all too familiar, though it was usually on his own face. "Our dear friend, Peter, seems to have worn out his welcome," Samuel claimed, gesturing to the man formerly known as Peter Petrelli. "Would you be so kind as to show him the way out?"

Their gaze did not break, and Sylar took the liberty of looking into Samuel's mind.

Behind the smile was the simple phrase: _Kill him._

Seemingly unabashed, Sylar nodded, though inside he no longer had a desire to kill Peter. Not a strong one, anyway. But, this was the deal he had made with Samuel to keep Claire alive. Do his bidding, and the cheerleader survives. It destroyed his pride, but he had eternity to think about.

He took a step forward, but then he made a terrible, most horrible mistake.

He looked into Claire's eyes, and by no accord of his own, Sylar communicated exactly what he was about to do.

She shook her head, silently, the horror etched in her face. He could see the 'no' on her lips, and the pleading in her eyes. He had to ignore it. Had to. He wasn't Gabriel today. Just Sylar. Only Sylar. Nothing to think about but his mission.

But, everything changed in a matter of seconds as it was the way of the carnival.

Claire broke from the clone's grasp after elbowing it in the groin; it groaned and disappeared. She sprinted forward before anything could stop her and barreled into Sylar's chest, throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him. He rocked backward from her momentum and the absolute shock that his most prominent fantasy was coming true.

She was a passionate thing, urgent. She was already half-lifted off the ground, as she was much too short to reach him without his assistance, and he couldn't resist the urge to let his hands roam: through her hair, down her back, along her thighs as she curled around his form.

But, just as quickly as it happened, it was over. She pulled away, still held up in his arms. She stared hard and long into his eyes, shaking. "You want to start building bridges?" she hissed under her breath. She pressed her lips lightly to his and continued with her sweet words. "Then, don't do it. Please. Don't."

Her lips, her kiss…Sylar was intoxicated. Forget his mission. If Claire kept this up, he would probably forget about Samuel, too. But, alas, she fell from his grasp to her feet and separated herself from him, never breaking his gaze. She mouthed 'Please' once more. And again. And again. The tears in her eyes, her tremulous body, her desperation…Damn it.

Damn it all to hell.

Sylar regained his composure, losing her eyes for his own sake. He stared straight ahead. "I'm sorry, Claire."

He could sense it, could feel the way her expression changed. Confusion. Then, pure, unadulterated loathing. "No," she whispered. "No."

He ignored her, pushing her out of the way as she tried to put herself between him and Peter. "NO!" she screamed as she fell but quickly rebounded, punching him uselessly in the back as he knelt and took Peter from Emma, lifting him from the ground. Emma remained, bewildered and in a complete daze. But, Sylar didn't see it. He kept staring straight ahead, trying to convince himself that he was anywhere else but there.

"NO! No, Sylar, please, stop!"

He had to get out of there before he killed Samuel, who was ever so graciously holding Claire back as she tried to pound the life out of Sylar. The last thing he heard before he shot into the sky was Emma's eerily calm voice asking, "Where is Peter going?"

* * *

It was only minutes before Sylar landed in a crowded wood, but it felt like time was moving in slow motion. Peter had passed out, and as his feet touched the ground, he threw the man down unable to bear his weight any longer. He paced for several moments, trying to gather himself.

He had to kill Peter to make sure Claire lived.

But, Claire would be devastated if one of her only surviving relatives perished. He had already orphaned her. Did he really have to kill Peter?

The darker side of him wanted to kill him. He had always hated Peter and his righteous ways. He would complete one of his lifelong missions if he finally rid the world of him.

But, that was something he had desired before his life was turned upside down. So…maybe he didn't want to anymore?

"God damn it!" he breathed, frustrated. He ran his fingers through his hair and finally sat on a stump not too far away from Peter's body.

He had to make a decision.

Abruptly, he lifted his hand and Peter lifted into the air, facing Sylar. His feet dangled, and with a little electric shock, he awoke. His eyes darted around, searching for danger, but all they found was a contemplative Sylar, which was plenty danger enough.

"Sy…Sy…lar…"

Peter tried to lift a hand, but it was futile. He was so weak, but there was still hatred in his eyes.

"I've brought you out here to kill you," Sylar quipped, holding Peter steady. "Samuel told me to, and I'm helping him to save Claire."

At this, Peter merely looked confused.

"I know," Sylar chuckled, "it doesn't make any sense. Why Claire? Why would I care at all?"

He stood, approaching Peter slowly in the most nonthreatening way he could. Peter struggled nonetheless.

"But, the thing is, Pete," he murmured, "I think Claire is my answer…And I will do anything to get that answer."

Peter's eyes widened. He feared for his niece's life, but he could see his own death coming in seconds by the helpless expression on Sylar's face. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

This was it.

Suddenly, though, he was released. He collapsed on the ground in a heap at Sylar's feet. Sylar reached down and yanked him up by the arm, helping him momentarily to balance before he turned him to face a particular direction.

"The highway is that way," Sylar told him, pointing straight ahead. "Walk towards it. Don't turn around, or you'll get lost, and I have no intention of coming to look for you."

Peter was dumbfounded, looking between Sylar's hand and his face, trying to understand the situation.

"I'll keep her safe," he reassured Peter. "It's kind of the whole reason I'm here. That Emma girl, too. I'll protect them. But, you have to go."

Peter still couldn't understand; he shook his head. Sylar sighed, irritated.

"You're supposed to save them, Peter," he clarified, reiterating Lydia's words. "You're the hero. Now go before I change my mind."

Sylar shoved him forward, and Peter stumbled. He was just regaining feeling in his legs, but he didn't fall. Just as he turned to look back at Sylar, the man had vanished. He turned back to the direction Sylar had pointed. Peter took a deep breath.

The highway. He had to get to the highway.

He took a step and did not look back.

* * *

Sylar returned to find Claire, Emma, and Samuel in much the same state he had left them.

Claire was crying. Emma was lost. And Samuel smiled, meeting Sylar's eyes.

"...It's done."

Samuel nodded, pleased. Claire was finally silenced, mouth gaping, trying to find words.

"You unimaginable bastard."

He did not look at her. He couldn't. He might give it all away.

"Now, Claire," Samuel chided gently, "Peter was putting others at risk, and Sylar was just doing as he was told." Claire gave him a menacing glance, but he didn't seem to mind as he focused on Sylar. "Well, my boy, you've held up your end of the bargain…Claire's yours in the meantime."

She was still in Samuel's hands, and he pushed her towards Sylar. She was obstinate as he caught her, though. She began screaming again, throwing fists and curse words like there was no tomorrow, which to her, it might have seemed like there wasn't. He held her tightly as she hit him wishing he could tell her the truth. But, he couldn't. It would put her in more danger, and it would risk any chance Peter had. So, he let her hit him. Again and again.

Samuel grinned. "You kids have fun now!" he teased as though they were simply going off on a date. He crouched and assisted Emma in standing. Something had happened to the woman. She was lost, eyes glazed over. Broken.

"Where's Peter?" she asked. "I want Peter."

"Peter took a trip, sweetie," Samuel crooned softly. "But, don't you worry about him. Why don't we go get you so breakfast?"

She nodded dumbly. "Okay. That sounds nice."

They left Sylar and Claire alone.

She was exhausting herself, struggling against him. He simply watched and took everything she had to give him. He deserved that and more, but it was the best he could do for her at the moment. A time would come when he knew he'd have to pay for all of his deeds, but that wasn't the time yet.

"Claire…Claire, I'm sorry," he whispered gently. "I'm so sorry."

She was reduced to sobbing against his chest, forced into proximity by his embrace. "F-fuck you…I hate you…I hate you so much…"

"I know, Claire. I know."

"Please…just…" She cried. "Just kill me…"

Disturbed, Sylar freed one hand to lift her head. Her green eyes burned, and he let them tear him apart.

"Claire, do you want to sleep?"

Fresh tears slid down her face. "…yes...please…"

He nodded.

"I really am sorry."

With a wave of his hand, she was knocked unconscious. Her body became limp in his arms.

He hoisted her up, cradling her carefully, and began trekking back towards their tent.

* * *

**Again. Sorry for so long an update. I'll try to do better until this is done. Please review! Thanks!**


	13. Transgression

**Author shenanigans: So, hello again. I've been really busy so I haven't had the time I'd like to update this story more. I apologize. And I don't think I responded to every single review, and for that I also apologize. I really really do appreciate them. **

**I don't have much to say. There's a summary in the last chapter if you've forgotten what's happened. **

**Thanks again for all reviews, alerts, etc! They're wonderful!**

**Enjoy.**

* * *

_Chapter 13. Transgression_

* * *

So much pain in his eyes.

She wished to cure it.

She kissed his heart, and that was all she had to give.

* * *

Claire's nightmares were rampant.

Peter's beautiful face torn in half. Emma's vacant eyes and hollow expression.

Samuel's malicious grin, full of evil substance. Sylar's strong hands holding her back.

That look in his soul like maybe—just maybe—he regretted it.

She could feel the heat pressing down on her, the fire, and the bitterest cold. Demented demons smiled and bit her skin. Some devil broke her arms and snapped her legs. So much pain. So much misery.

It was too much for one person to bear.

Just as she was about to surrender, she woke with a start, thrashing, screaming.

Something was still holding her down against her bed.

"Claire! It's alright! Calm down. Nothing's gonna get you…"

His voice…it was soothing when he spoke so softly. God, she hated him. She hated him. Hated him…

"Claire," he purred into her ear. She wouldn't open her eyes, though she could feel his body above hers, too close. "Claire, please, wake up if it hurts to sleep." Her arms were pinned above her head. He placed a kiss on her forehead. "Or sleep if it hurts to wake. Just…stop hurting."

Revulsion coursed through her veins, and she tasted vomit on her tongue.

"Get. Off. Of. Me," she mumbled with as much force as she could muster, finally opening her eyes to see his.

He didn't move. "Do you want something to eat?"

"No. I'd like my uncle back, though, please," she snapped, her voice cracking as the pain enveloped her chest. "Now, get off me, or so help me God, I'll castrate you in your sleep."

He sighed. "I expected as much." And, he pushed off and away from her, slowly rising, eyes never leaving her form. "I'm hungry. I'm going to get us some food," he said with no inflection. "Don't try to run, Claire, because I don't know if I'll get there in time to protect you."

Her brow furrowed. She sat up on her elbows, glaring at him from her bed of pillows. "Protect me? I think the only protection I need is from _you_."

He nodded. "Suit yourself." Then, he left her alone in their tent.

_Her _tent. It was hers.

Claire stared out into the bit of light that reached inside. It was warm, probably sometime in late afternoon, she guessed. On a less flattering note, she realized she was drenched in sweat from all of the tossing and turning and nightmares.

She couldn't stop the tears as she thought of Peter. Peter. Poor Peter. He probably didn't even fight Sylar. He was so weak when she saw him, and that bloody gash…He lost so much blood. Maybe Sylar made it quick. It had to have been. He was only gone for a few short minutes, though they felt like the longest minutes of Claire's life. But, Peter was tortured by Samuel or one of his thugs. That clone guy maybe. Or someone else. It must have hurt. More than she could imagine.

That's when it hit Claire, and she remembered.

Samuel had made her hurt. Really hurt. Not just the emotional kind. The physical, teeth cringing, gut wrenching hurt. She gasped. Maybe…maybe if…

She stood, thrown into action by her realization. She found her trunk of clothes, which she figured someone who was much kinder than Sylar retrieved and returned, and quickly changed. Her stomach growled boisterously, but she ignored it as she paced the length of the tent, back and forth, muttering to herself.

Sylar returned at that moment.

"Claire," he began, wondering if he had finally pushed her into insanity.

She snapped to attention upon seeing him. Her eyes narrowed.

"What?" she spat.

He stood in the entrance with two plates of some sandwiches and chips. "I…I brought you food."

"Well, I don't want it," she replied, at which point her stomach nearly roared. Sylar quirked a brow in disbelief, eyeing her suspiciously. "Okay. Fine. I need food."

She stomped over to him reluctantly and took a plate before retreating to a far corner and sitting. Sylar sank to the ground by the door, quietly proceeding to eat his food, glancing at her every once in a while.

Time went by, and Claire's mind raced. It was a good distraction.

There had to be some sort of catalyst that caused the pain to turn on and off. There had to be some kind of explanation. But, what? When Sylar poked her brain, it disappeared. When Samuel nearly killed her, it came back. What was the common factor? What was causing this enigma?

She sighed heavily. How would she even know? What if it was temporary? Maybe it was just something Samuel did that night so all she could remember was the pain.

The seemingly obvious idea struck her.

"Sylar," she croaked voice hoarse from disuse, "I need you to do something for me. And, you owe me more than your life, so you better do it."

Sylar perked up at her words. She was talking to him. It was a start. "And that would be…?"

"Cut me."

He didn't respond.

"Sylar, seriously," she said as she rose to walk towards him. "I just need you to cut me. Nothing big. Just a slit on my arm or leg or something." He simply stared at her. "I'll just break the mirror if it comes down to it, but I figure this is cleaner."

He was dumbfounded. "Claire, I-"

"Just cut me. God damn it, Sylar, I'm actually asking you to hurt me. Will you just-"

He stood quickly, turning to exit the tent. "No, I'm not-"

She grabbed his arm and twisted him around. He let her. "No! You owe me at least this! Just cut me! I need to see something, and you're going to help me or-"

"Claire!" he interrupted, raising his voice for the first time in a while. "If you ask me to cut you one more time, I swear, I'm just going to hack you to pieces."

She didn't seem fazed. "Good!" she yelled in reply. "Just do something to hurt me! I need you to-"

"ClaireIdon'twanttohurtyou!"

Silence stopped them dead.

Claire was speechless, though not for long.

"You don't want to hurt me?" she murmured, acid in her soft voice. "After everything you've done, you don't want to hurt me?" She took a step forward and slapped him hard across the face before shoving him. "Come on, Sylar, fight back!" She pushed him again, but she had very little effect. "Come on! Are you the bad guy or aren't you? AREN'T YOU?"

Claire raised her hand to slap him again, but he grabbed her wrist in midair, trapping it in a viselike grip. She didn't struggle. He stared her down. Slowly, her turned her arm over in his hand, palm up. He placed a finger on her wrist. He traced a treacherous, long line up her arm, and in its wake, blood dripped out. Claire hissed in displeasure. The skin knit back together almost as soon as he completed the line to her elbow, and when he met her eyes, he saw the tears building with a look of relief.

"I-I…I can feel the pain," she whispered in disbelief. "I…I haven't felt it…since you cut me open…"

He showed no expression, but rather he lifted her wrist to his lips and kissed it. He followed the line up her arm he had drawn, planting beseeching kisses that she shied away from. Finally, he lifted his head and met her eyes.

"I don't want to hurt you, Claire," he breathed so softly she hardly heard. He leaned in carefully and kissed her. She was stiff, unmoving. Her eyes didn't even close. He panted against her lips once more, "I don't want to hurt you. I don't."

He left one last kiss before Claire wrenched herself away, trembling. She pointed to the exit.

"Please, get out," she pleaded. "Please. I won't leave, but God, just get out."

He chuckled to himself bitterly, not at all amused, but he nodded and did as she asked, leaving the tent.

Claire couldn't contain herself. Her knees gave out. She collapsed on her pillows and cried.

* * *

Night fell, and soon enough, Sylar returned.

He found Claire staring up at her chandelier of colored glass, watching it rotate. She was singing—or mumbling—some sad song to herself, and he thought it best to just let her be. He grabbed a spare pillow and situated himself on the hard ground, far away from Claire.

He listened to her soft voice, and like a lullaby, it put him to sleep.

The hours passed, but Claire did not stir. She wasn't tired, but she was emotionally exhausted. Too much had happened in a short amount of time, and her brain was working furiously to process all of it. However, her poor heart couldn't handle it. She felt it break somewhere along the way.

Her quiet night was interrupted by a loud grunt from Sylar. Her head turned curiously towards the sound, and when it happened again, she sat up, watching him. He twisted uncomfortably, head burying into his pillow, nails biting into the dirt before he'd roll the other way and repeat the process. She observed with fascination. She considered waking him up. To be fair, he forced her to live a nightmare, why not leave him to a few of his own?

She lay back down and listened to his pain, finding a twisted satisfaction in it. She was more than content to spend the night with his agony as her symphony.

"M-mommy…" he mumbled. "Mom…d-don't…don't g-go…"

She nearly burst with laughter. How ironic. The big, bad wolf crying for his mommy.

"Mom…please…Mom-my…"

She giggled, feeling mad with glee. Oh, he'd hear about it the next day, that's for sure.

Claire sat up once more and watched him, but her smile slowly faded. He was almost writhing in pain, gritting his teeth and…crying. Yes, crying real tears, not drops of acid or flowing lava but real liquid tears. She cringed. Veins were popping on his neck and forehead as he released a cry.

"Stop….Daddy…d-don't…"

She shook her head and buried her face in the pillows, covering her ears. But, his cries prevailed.

"D-daddy…stop!"

She sighed in frustration and rolled onto her knees, crawling over to where he lay. She grabbed an angry hand and shook his shoulder with another.

"Sylar!" she hissed. "Sylar, wake up! It's a dream."

However, he grew more restless, and she couldn't manage to wake him. Without much thought except to stop him before he hit her, she climbed on top of his wriggling body, trying to steady his arms but finding it difficult; he was much stronger than her.

"Sylar!" Her voice grew in volume. "Sylar, wake up!"

He was nearly sobbing.

"Sylar, come on! Wake up!"

She lightly slapped him on the face and shook his body, and suddenly, it was enough.

His eyes snapped open as he abruptly sat up nearly knocking Claire over. He gripped her arms tightly to the point of bruising. She yelped in surprise. His eyes were wide and alert. She was afraid to move.

"Sy-sylar…"

Tears were on his cheeks, and it was the strangest sight Claire had ever seen.

"M-my name…is G-Gabriel…"

She was bewildered. "G-Gabriel, huh?" she squeaked, fear filling her as his grip tightened. "Gabriel…you w-were having a…a nightmare…I…I thought I s-should…wake you."

He was shaking, a look in his eyes that made Claire squirm. It was a moment that passed between hours and lightyears. He was searching for something, and she didn't know what.

"L-love me."

She gave away nothing, more confused than ever before. He leaned forward and gave her a brutal kiss, dangerous, hurting.

"Love me, please," he whispered into her mouth. "Please…love me."

"Sy…Gabriel…" Claire tried to struggle, but she couldn't move atop him. He made sure of that. "Gabriel…stop."

He rolled them over, pinning her against the hard ground, lips connected against her will. "Please, love me. Please…"

She tried to move, but his weight and breath pushed her down. In between his vicious kisses, she gasped out, "G-gabriel…stop!"

He didn't.

One hand pinned her wrists while the other began roaming her body, along her collarbone, down her side, against her hip, and all the way back up to cup her neck and force her lips to his.

Claire panicked. "Gabriel!" she cried. "P-please! Stop!"

It was happening again. All over again. Suddenly, it wasn't Sylar, but the young football player from that other lifetime. Her back bit into the bleachers. His hand up her skirt. She tried to push him away, tried to fight, but he was too strong. They were always too damn strong. They could beat the shit out of her, and boy, could she take it, but there was absolutely nothing she could do in retaliation. Except drive them into walls.

She was sobbing. "Gabriel…please…"

And, then, he stopped. Before anything happened, before the nightmare came true, he stopped and jumped away from Claire as though she were on fire. She immediately scooted away and curled into a tight ball, nails digging into her knees, heartbeat loud in her ears. She turned her head just slightly to see Sylar sitting in the light seeping in from the moon, tearful, confused, and…ashamed.

"I'm…I'm…" He couldn't find words.

Tripping, he rose and sprinted out of the tent, running away from her.

Claire waited alone.

* * *

God, he was stupid. So stupid.

He didn't mean to hurt or frighten her. He was just…He couldn't remember.

He didn't even remember waking up.

He just fell into consciousness when he heard her screaming.

Not out loud. In her head. And, he saw that boy. The boy who…who…

He couldn't even think it.

He didn't mean to. He didn't…

So, Sylar ran, chest aching, feet burning.

He ran.


	14. Vindication

**Author shenanigans: Geez guys. I'm soooOOoooOOooo sorry. I know that was a really long absence and I'm a dirty liar. I just had such a difficult time figuring out how to connect this chapter and make it a bridge. I hope it lives up to your expectations. Not much to say except, I will finish this story, damn it. **

**Thanks for all reviews, favorites, etc! I'm sorry if I didn't get the chance to reply to you. **

**Read on! And please don't hate me forever!**

* * *

_Chapter 14. Vindication_

* * *

Emma was lost.

Her mind was a fog. The world, in slow motion.

She couldn't understand the words people spoke. Or their actions.

She couldn't remember her purpose.

This man…what was his name? He tended to her quite often, bringing her food, keeping her sheltered at the…the…where was she?

Circus seemed like the right word, she thought. No…no…

Carnival! Yes! That was it. Carnival.

Emma sat inside a tent, staring at the solid-colored green on the wall. That man—the one who owned the carnival, she guessed—entered the tent, carrying a large wooden instrument. She recognized it. Her tongue could not find its name, but she recognized it. The man said something to her, but his words slurred and bended before they reached her ears. She only saw the beautiful colors spewing from his mouth.

He handed her the instrument, and she gripped its neck while the endpin stuck into the ground. Emma blinked, unsure of how to proceed. He also handed her a stick. Yes, she was sure it was a stick, but it wasn't like one from a tree. It had…some kind of string on it.

Bow.

Yes! That was the word!

And the instrument…Well, she'd figure it out soon enough.

Emma naturally settled the instrument between her knees, still gripping the neck while her other hand found the proper grip for the bow. The man was talking adamantly, and she just nodded and smiled along. She pressed the bow hairs to the string of the instrument, and without thought, she slid the bow across.

She heard the sound for the first time, and it was beautiful. Color erupted from the strings, and she grinned. Her hand on the neck switched positions, and a new sound and color was produced. She giggled in delight, continuing to play her personal melody.

…Cello! Cello, cello, cello! That was its name!

Emma felt calm with the cello in her hands. Somehow, everything seemed to make more sense.

But, a piece was still missing.

Why was she there?

…It was a boy…a man…His name…his name was…

But, the _colors_…they were so beautiful…

Emma continued to play.

* * *

Sylar was ashamed.

He had done many awful things in his life, and he regretted many of them but never had he felt so…filthy. Disgusting. Like his skin was made of something foul. He didn't want to think of what she was feeling.

The shame was the only thing that fueled his legs in the early morning's light. He hadn't rested. He just kept running with iron weights for lungs and ribs on fire. Every part of him ached, but he couldn't stop. He couldn't. Not until he…

Where was he going? What was he doing?

Where was he supposed to go if Claire wasn't there? That was his job: to protect Claire at the carnival. What did he think he was doing?

But, there was no way he could stand in her presence, let alone look in those eyes and still feel like a man. He'd crossed the invisible line that night, unintentional or not. It was an accident, he supposed. Or maybe some carnie was playing a sick joke on him. But, he would never do that to her, not after all that had happened. He didn't kill Peter Petrelli when the man was practically offered up to him on a silver platter. That had to mean he had changed. It had to.

Yet, it didn't change the fact that he had almost…almost…_raped_ Claire.

A strangled sound escaped his throat at the word. What a terrible concept. What a horrid act. He was a sick man, violent, angry, and many other things. But, to make Claire...God, he couldn't think it again. He just had to keep running until the pain in his chest ebbed and the shame stopped infiltrating every cell of his body. He just had to keep going…

But, Claire. Claire! Sylar had just done the most idiotic thing he could have done.

He left her alone with a man who had no problem giving her the axe. Literally. How could he have been so stupid? He was irrational. It was one thing to leave her in the tent but another to completely leave the carnival grounds. Samuel could have been locking her away as he ran, using her for bait or more sinister things.

He hadn't realized how aimless his path was among the trees until he stopped in his tracks. Sylar had to let it go, let go of the shame if only for a short while. Claire's life depended on it. He pushed it away to the far recesses of his mind, saving it for later analysis and dissection or maybe to never recall again.

He had to go back. Immediately. He had to get back to her, even if she preferred him to be six feet under.

Sweaty and panting, he pushed off the ground and rose into the air, brushing through the leaves until he reached the sky. He took off in the direction he knew to be the carnival.

* * *

Claire was motionless for many hours after Sylar left.

She couldn't explain why. Maybe she was afraid. Or shocked. Or angry. Or some concoction of all joyless emotions.

She felt the air begin to warm, and a breeze drifted inside.

Claire had finally had enough.

Something suddenly moved her. Without warning, without a sound, she rose into action. She changed her clothes and slipped on a pair of shoes. She glanced around her temporary home and instead of the sad twinge of nostalgia she thought she might feel, she saw the room tainted with Sylar's looks and Sylar's touch and Sylar's kiss…

Claire hurried out of the tent but pressed against its side hoping to blend out of sight as she surveyed the area. No one was up yet. Or perhaps they were at breakfast. Either way, with Sylar gone it was the perfect opportunity to make an escape.

She dodged down the pathway in between trailers and tents, being as quiet and subtle as possible. It was a fastidious process, but she was careful. The whole thing would be useless if she was caught. She would have to go back to Sylar whenever he returned and—

Sylar. She had only kissed him the day before out of desperation to save Peter. It wasn't some sick, hidden desire of hers to captivate the madman. She thought it was the best and only chance she had at the time. And, it was in vain. But, after what he tried to do to her in the night…

She wanted to cry, but there simply were not enough tears.

The man had howled for his mother. _For his mother_. Could she not simply delight in the fact that he had some fallacy to his evil façade? No, instead, he has to try to…to…

But, he stopped.

The train of thought caught her off guard. He stopped. He stopped. Stopped.

She couldn't understand. How could he be so indecisive? It was almost irritating. Be the bad guy or…don't! Hurt people or…stop!

He stopped.

Sylar asked her to love him. She scoffed at the idea. How could he even…She would never love him. What possessed him to make him believe he could even request…

But, maybe that was it. What possessed him? What happened to him? Sylar was many terrible things, and Claire would not put it past him to take advantage of a girl. But…he wasn't the type. His thrills came more from gaining powers than a physical conquering over a woman.

Why did God curse her with such a strange Boogeyman?

She was alone. Orphaned. No more family. A sadistic killer who wanted her affections, and a carnival as her prison cell.

Until she escaped. Claire focused less on her want of liberation and more on the alternative if she didn't achieve it.

She arrived at the last open stretch between the rusty, metal attractions on the edge of the carnival and the tree-line. There was nothing to hide behind. Just grass. She'd have to make a run for it.

Before someone came or she changed her mind (as if she ever could), Claire ran. Hard. As fast as her short legs could carry her. It was only a matter of seconds before she reached the woods. She had no idea where it led or if there was even a way out, but she didn't care. She ran.

But, her freedom was short-lived and vanishing by the second.

Trees were blurring by. Browns. Greens. Occasional splashes of colorful flowers. Through her adrenaline, she hadn't seen that several dark figures had appeared from thin air; they were in her peripherals, just far away enough to escape notice but close enough to be an obvious threat. She didn't see until she ran smack into one, falling backwards into the dirt. She looked up and met the eyes of one of Samuel's henchmen, the dark-haired cloning man. He had a terrible smirk on his face, one that signaled that Claire was in terrible danger. She scrambled to her feet and turned to make a beeline in the opposite direction, but her vision was filled with several more of him as they grabbed her arms and held her despite her struggles to break free.

"Samuel sent me to retrieve you. He had a feeling you might get…lost in the woods," he said, as his clones twisted Claire around to face him. His voice was sickening, some combination of mania and evil. She could see it all over his face as he drew it uncomfortably close to hers. "He also said that I could use whatever means to…deter you from getting lost again."

The clones dragged her like she was a sack of potatoes over to a tree which had fallen but remained propped up at an angle by another tree. One threw her back against it while the other pulled rope out of his pocket. Each then proceeded to take one of her arms and bend them around the trunk to their breaking point. And then her arms did break as they were pulled out of socket. She cried out in pain. She forgot how much that really hurt, especially when it was unable to heal; they were tying her hands beneath her, under the angled, fallen tree, preventing her body from fixing itself.

Tears welled up in her eyes. She cursed to herself. She had wished for pain for so long, but now that it was there, she wasn't so sure.

The man came closer to her, and he was then wielding a knife. "I don't believe we've been introduced, Claire," he sang, running the shining blade along her chin. She composed herself, giving him her best look of loathing as he grinned. "My name's Eli." Abruptly, he slashed her cheek clean across. She yelped in surprise. The man was silent for a moment as he watched in wonder while the blood slowly disappeared, and her skin knit itself back together; it looked untouched, unblemished, perfect.

"Fascinating," he breathed, as he gently ran the blade along her collarbone. "You know, I had a friend…Edgar…had a thing for knives." The blade ran lower, between her breasts, where he began cutting the material of her shirt. "Showed me a few tri-"

Eli was cut off as Claire swung her leg with all her might, kicking him in the jaw. It made her body contort in a painful way, and she screamed, but she was not about to have a replay of the night before.

He cursed, and more of his clones appeared with additional rope, and her legs were tied to the tree trunk. Eli, rubbing his jaw at the point of contact, returned with less of a smirk and more anger in his eyes. He took the knife, and finished ripping her shirt down the middle, leaving an exposed stomach and bra. At seeing her discomfort, he smiled. Eli then leaned down, close to her ribs, and kissed her skin. She grunted and cursed at him and twisted, even though it sent shooting pains through her body. He chuckled.

"Don't worry, Claire," he purred, his breath tickling her skin. "That's not what I'm here for."

He stood straight, lifted his knife, and plunged it deeply in the space between her rib cage. She let out a scream as he dragged the knife down to her navel. He was smiling. The son of a bitch was smiling while she stared with wild eyes of fear and panic. He then made a cross in her abdomen, sticking the knife into her side and dragging it through her stomach. She clenched her jaw tightly as she cried, horrid sounds gargling from her throat. Blood bubbled forth and dripped out of the corners of her mouth.

"Scream for me," he demanded, stabbing her here and there on her body. "Scream, damn it!"

But, she wouldn't. Couldn't. Not anymore. She laid her head back, staring at the beautiful blue sky.

Staring at that sky, it seemed to strange that her life had put her there, so strange that even though she tried to do good, tried to fight the good fight, she was having her innards torn out by a mad man who could clone himself. It was so strange; she was the cheerleader. How the hell did she end up there under his knife, being tortured for running away? How many wrong turns must she have taken? How many twisted plots had she fallen into?

Claire vaguely saw through her tears as Eli began pulling out her organs, carelessly discarding them on the dirty ground and then staring in fascination at her open midsection, where her skin had been peeled back like flaps. She knew it was the organs regenerating themselves, and he angrily tore out more: a half formed stomach, diaphragm, liver, whatever he could get his bloody hands on. Her body began shaking; she was dying. The pain was unbearable; she could feel her brain shutting down. Her thoughts were going blank, her conscious slipping away.

Why had she wished for this? Why the hell had she wished for pain?

The edges of darkness were creeping into her vision. He had given up on her insides. He was lifting the knife, preparing to plunge it straight through her heart. "You will scream for me," he said, when suddenly something large and fast tackled Eli. Barely breathing and continuing to cough up blood, Claire slowly turned her head, and she saw his back, saw him pull the evil knife up and throw it like a dart into Eli's skull. Unfortunately, that Eli had just been a clone, and all of the others had disappeared. They didn't seem to want to test the man practically vibrating the air with his anger, choking the life out of something with clenched fists.

He turned back to her. "Claire," he breathed gently, angrily, adoringly.

Tears of misery and fear kept falling down the sides of her face. "D-don't…touch…me…" her voice scratched out. "…Sylar…"

He nodded carefully. "Claire…" God, how did he begin? "Claire, I'm so sorry…" He made his way toward her with the knife he retrieved from the ground.

She closed her eyes and turned away as he knelt down and cut the ropes binding her hands before standing and releasing her feet as well. But, Claire didn't move. Her gaze returned to the sky; her arms remained displaced.

Sylar felt a pain in his chest like a black hole opening up and growing wider the longer he stared at her. Her middle was still open, baring her soul to the world as her body began regenerating its insides, but her arms were twisted, and those blank green eyes—they were killing him.

He lowered himself to her field of vision. He whispered softly, "Claire…Claire, please…let me help you…"

She released a terrible, blood-spewing cough. "Tell me…" she croaked, not looking at him. "Tell me…what happened…last…night…"

Her voice was barely there. He didn't know how to begin, how to explain. "I…don't know…" he answered. "I honestly…I can't explain it…I wasn't in control…it wasn't me…it was…I don't know." This was not working out at all. "Claire…God, Claire…I'm so sorry."

Claire could feel the black hole growing in her chest, too, but she could also feel an indescribable weight melting off her shoulders, making her feel light and dizzy. It was probably the blood loss. "Okay," she replied, finally turning her head to meet his pleading eyes. "Don't…don't let it…happen…again."

He nodded; that was his cue. He reached out and grabbed her arm, carefully trying to right it before swiftly popping it into place. She screamed and sobbed all at once, finally releasing the pain she'd had pent up for so long. All of it. From the time Sylar had cut her head open up until that moment—all of her pain came pouring out. It hurt so badly. He cautiously climbed over her to do the same with her other arm, and she continued sobbing.

Sylar grabbed her hand, and she tried to push him away, but he wouldn't let go. She stared at him as she cried, the pain of her re-growing organs causing an immense amount of misery. "Let me go…please…"

He grabbed her other hand and enveloped them in his. "I'm not letting you go, Claire." She screamed as something particularly painful regenerated. He brought her fingers to his lips and kissed them. "I won't leave you. I can take it. I can take all of your pain. I can handle it. I promise."

There were there for a while as she howled and cursed and tried to hit him; he was more patient and loving than he had ever been in his life, though he knew he owed it to her. Eventually, her cries subsided, and Sylar gently folded the parts of her skin back over; they healed in seconds, and Claire was once again unmarked.

The thought was disturbing; no wonder no one would ever understand her pain. Hell, they could never see that it happened.

He became increasingly aware of her lack of a shirt, and he wasted no time in taking off his own and handing it to her. She sat up with a certain amount of queasiness and her skin paler than he had ever seen it. She flinched at the sight of his bare torso, but she said nothing and instead removed the remains of her former shirt and threw on his.

Sylar put an arm under her knees and the other behind her back, lifting her and carrying her away before she could see her other organs thrown about the place. In an exhausted manner, she rested her arms on his shoulder and laid her head upon them, still shaking against his skin. He could see her discomfort, and he wished he could cure it, but it would take a while for her to even think of trusting him.

He lifted slowly off the ground into the air and flew back towards their unsatisfying home.

* * *

They were inside their tent again. Sylar put her down as though her were afraid she would shatter the moment she touched the ground. Claire held onto his forearms for steadiness, but when she felt balanced she didn't let go. He looked at her curiously, waiting. That's when she stood on her toes and pulled him down low enough to press her lips against his.

It was sweet, innocent, fleeting.

"Thank you…for rescuing me."

Immediately, Claire seemed to find herself, and she backed away, turning her body to not face his. He stared at her, dumbfounded. However, he tried to ignore the gesture, and he instead rifled through his things and found a new shirt before heading to the entrance of the tent.

He needed to speak to Samuel. He had some explaining to do.

* * *

**Please review!**


	15. Confession

**Author shenanigans: Okay. Sorry about the wait! I edited this and reposted because I wrote it really fast because I felt terrible about not having it published sooner. Nothing changed much. Please ignore all my fluff. But enjoy it anyway. **

**Disclaim: I stole lines from a couple movies because I love them: 28 Days Later and Good Will Hunting. I do not own. **

**Thanks for all the reviews, alerts, etc! **

**Onward!**

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_Chapter 15. Confession_

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_Beep. _

_Beep. _

_Beep. _

_Beep. _

A groan rumbled from his throat as he licked his teeth, feeling his dry mouth. He cautiously opened one eye and then the other, just slightly because the white light seemed to burn right through his retinas.

_Beep. _

_Beep._

He tried to roll his shoulders, and he felt his muscles tense against a soft mattress. He rolled his hands into fists, feeling the bones crack as he stretched them back out. How long had it been since he had used them? How long had he been lying on this bed?

He slowly sat up, and every part of his body ached. He grunted, arm curling around his stomach which was covered in wrap. His head pounded, and his body was as stiff as if he'd been petrified. After slowly blinking and allowing his eyes to adjust, he forced himself to take account of his surroundings. He realized he was wearing a white gown with tiny light blue dots, and his sheets and blanket were white with blue edging. In fact, the entire room was white. For a moment, he had a sinking feeling that he'd died and gone to hell, but then he realized he was just in the hospital.

_Beep. _

_Beep. _

_Beep._

He glanced at the electrocardiograph monitor and saw his own heartbeat bouncing by, surprisingly calm given the circumstances.

One last sweep around the room clued him in to the dark figure sitting on a blue chair in the corner, head dipped in slumber and hands stuffed into leather pockets. His dark hair fell in his face just perfectly, but the face held something new the man in the bed had not expected: a scar, slashing his flawless complexion clean across.

"Pe…" The man coughed, and the motion made his body ache all the more. His voice was hoarse from disuse. "Peter…."

The noise stirred the figure in the chair. Peter Petrelli's head shot up, eyes groggy from sleep or lack thereof. He immediately stood, giving himself an awful head-rush as he made his way over to the bedside.

"Peter, your face—"

"Later," he snapped. "We have bigger problems."

The man became alarmed, and he suddenly began shuffling around in his sheets. "Where are my glasses?"

Peter glanced at the side table, and he grabbed a pair of horn-rimmed glasses, handing them over with a restless and hasty manner, his nerve and fear getting the best of him. There wasn't time. He had to tell him. He pulled the small copper compass out of his pocket for his display.

"Noah, Claire's in trouble."

Noah gently slid the glasses on, his injured muscles slowing him down. He took a deep breath to keep the panic out of his body, out of his mind. He had to keep a level head. Ever so slowly, he swung his legs out and over the edge of the bed and worked up a sweat in the process. Peter helped him stand on wobbly knees. Noah's usual grimacing smirk found its way to his lips as he held out his hand for the compass, and Peter handed it to him.

"Well, then, what are we waiting for?"

* * *

Samuel breathed a heavy sigh. It was barely past noon, and things were already spiraling out of control.

"You disappoint me, Eli," he murmured with the scolding tone of a father. "Get out of my sight."

A muscle in the man's face twitched. He nearly risked his life to do Samuel's bidding and that was the thanks he got? But, the minion did as he was commanded and disappeared among the tents.

Samuel could do nothing but shake his head as he shuffled through the various maps and papers on his desk. Just outside his trailer, thin drapes served as curtains and a canopy that gave no privacy or protection, but he never felt much need for them despite all of his scheming. His fingers fluttered from map to map, searching for something only they seemed to know. Before he knew it, he was shaking from oxygen debt, and he fell into a chair, taking a deep breath and releasing something akin to laughter. Samuel leaned his head back, his eyes meeting the pattern of the canopy and a piece of the blue sky.

A thought occurred, and he sat up, reaching into one of the drawers of his desk and pulling out an old, wrinkled piece of paper. A nostalgic smile crossed his features, and the pads of his fingers brushed gently across the illustration.

"Who is she?"

He wasn't surprised to hear Sylar's voice. Samuel looked up and saw the man leaning ever so coolly against his trailer, arms crossed over his chest casually as if he wasn't burning with hatred. Samuel gave him an embittered smile.

"The woman I loved, but…" His eyes fell back to the picture. "There's nothing more to be said about her. Our story is over."

He crumpled the paper in his hands, swallowing hard as he returned his attention to Sylar.

"So, why haven't you tried to kill me yet?" he asked quaintly. "I did, after all, harm your precious Claire."

Sylar cocked his head to the side, his hands itching to wring Samuel's neck, but with a raised eyebrow, he instead answered, "I want to know your plan." A pause. "No…I need to know…if we're going to continue, I need answers."

Samuel chuckled softly, his tensed hands relaxing and letting the paper fall to the ground. Sylar almost expected a straight forward answer, but it seemed an impossibility for the carnie. "Why, Gabriel?" he laughed. "Why do you keep rescuing her? Why are you trying to save her?" His face melted to steel as he stood, foot stamping meaningfully on the crumpled drawing and digging it into the ground. "She's holding you back from your potential." He approached Sylar with an air of grandeur while Sylar straightened, standing taller. "With your ability…and mine…" The carnie grabbed him by the shoulders, shaking him with the revelation. "We could rule the world."

Sylar had to admit, the hunger seemed to scratch against his insides as he thought of all the abilities, all the power and importance and frivolity; it seemed brilliant. But, then, he saw Claire's eyes burrowing into him, begging him: _Please…don't…please…please…._The memory made him ache.

So, he stared down the tip of his nose at Samuel and repeated, "I need to know the plan."

Samuel smiled, giving Sylar a pat on the shoulder. "Of course you do, of course." He seemed distracted as he slowly returned to the chair, sitting down as though it were a task and mumbling to himself.

Sylar was confused, but he held his ground. "You said something about a homeland, once," he prodded, "something about making a safe place for…for people like us?"

Samuel nodded. "Yes, my boy," he murmured, almost reverently. "A world where we can walk in the sun without fear of retribution for sins we've never committed."

"And how do we get this world?" Sylar asked, taking a few steps forward. "Are we having a coming out party and hoping for the best?"

Samuel snorted and rolled his eyes. "No." Even as he was slouching he looked to Sylar. "I'm going to give them a…a demonstration of our power."

Sylar's brow furrowed. "Demonstration?" He shook his head. "What kind of demonstration are we talking about here? Where?"

Samuel grinned. "So many questions, Gabriel." The younger man tensed at therepeated use of his name. "I'll show them what we're capable of," he answered cryptically. "And where else but the best city on earth?" Sylar knew before Samuel even breathed, "New York City."

And, suddenly, he understood Samuel's intent. "People are going to die, aren't they?"

The carnie shrugged. "I suppose it's always a possibility."

There was a pregnant pause as the two men looked at one another, summing each other up, deciding to trust or not, to become an alliance or not. Honestly, it didn't matter to Sylar if the entirety of New York City died—hell, he'd tried to blow it up himself at one point—but he had a feeling it wouldn't coincide with Claire's conscience. He wasn't sure how much he desired her approval, but he recalled her face again, the pleading: _Please…don't…_ And, Sylar wasn't so sure he could bare the weight of thousands of souls channeled through her eyes like a mirror, a mirror of all his misdeeds that he'd never be able to amend…so, what was the point of trying?

"Okay," he said, voice almost imperceptible. "I'm with you."

Sylar had nothing more to say, and he turned to leave a satisfied Samuel. However, the carnie immediately called out to his back, "Why didn't you just read my mind?"

Sylar froze. Of course, he had tried that. "I couldn't," he answered honestly. "You're…you're different."

Sylar did not see the malicious grin that played across Samuel's face, and he didn't need to. Samuel knew damn good and well that Sylar couldn't read his mind; he was just reminding him of his strength, of his power, and how much greater it was than Sylar's.

Infuriated and lost, he headed back to Claire, but upon entering the tent, she was nowhere to be seen. A wisp of panic coursed through him, so he closed his eyes and listened for her—her mind, her heartbeat, anything. He found it almost instantly, and he followed her sounds throughout the silent tents and rides until he found her sitting in a yellow cushioned box of the Ferris wheel, eyes downcast as she was curled into a tight ball. Something in his chest lit to see her still wearing his shirt; she had yet to change, but the moment was brief because her dazed look greatly resembled Emma's, and that struck him with fear.

He said nothing as he approached her, and she gave him no heed. He quietly slid into the rocking box on the opposite side, so he could face her. He just watched her for a second. Clouds had begun to fill the sky, and wind whipped small pieces of her hair in her face. She still seemed pale despite her naturally tan complexion; the way she chewed on her thumbnail and the way his shirt swamped her form made her seem small and childlike.

He had sat down with the intention of saying something, but now that he was there, he couldn't remember English.

She was contemplating before she sadly murmured, "We're…we're never getting out of here…" The words disturbed him. She finally looked up to meet his gaze. "…are we?"

Sylar tried to speak, but his tongue remained as tied as ever.

Her lip trembled, and she shivered. "He's more powerful than you," she went on. "You can't escape because if you could, you would have already." Tears ate at her eyes. "And I…I…" She seemed lost on herself. "God, what's the point?" Hot, salty tears rolled down her cheeks, trailing under her chin. "There's no one left!" She seemed to shrink on herself as she started sobbing. "I don't know what's happened to my dad…my uncle's dead…Nathan…And, I could never go back to my mom now…" She tightened her arms around herself and buried her face in her knees. "It's just…it's all fucked."

Some part of his heart cracked at her desolation, and all he wanted to do was cure it, make the suffering subside, make her happy or even angry again. Anything but the broken girl he was witnessing.

Sylar's hands reached for hers, and he shook them, forcing her to look up again. "Claire," he crooned with all of the affection he owned. "Claire…" He kissed her knuckles. "It's…it's not all fucked." She watched him steadily, her chest shuddering from the sobs. He continued peppering her hands with kisses. "It's…" Could he tell her? That Peter was alive? That he couldn't even confirm Noah was dead? "It's just…not." No, not yet; he couldn't risk it. "I can't tell you anything except that it's not."

A bitter sound escaped her mouth and she shook her head. She finally unfurled her body and rested her feet by his; she let him continue holding her hands between his, and he allowed her to lean in close to his face. Their noses were almost touching, and he felt like there was nothing else in the world but her eyes.

The tears continued. "Why?" she asked desperately. "Why do you keep saving me?" Her lip curled. "And don't give me any bullshit about eternity or bridges or me having the answers because I don't. I really don't. I can't help you anymore than I can help myself." She couldn't stop crying. "Why do you need to keep me alive?"

He didn't break her gaze. He just stared at her, in all of her glory and fascination, her fury and her pain, her beauty and her darkness. And, it seemed so simple, so easy, his next words, like a well recited Catholic prayer or a drunken story told far too many times.

"Because I'm falling in love with you, Claire."

She said nothing; he didn't expect her, too. So, he continued.

"And I…I will…" He took a deep breath. "I can't lose you." He looked inside her, through her green irises into the deep black. "And…if it is the last thing I do…I will get you out of here."

She never looked away, never tried to. She blinked several times, and her brow furrowed before her face finally relaxed. The corner of her lip tweaked its way into a half smile, and she unloosened one of her hands and cupped her palm against his cheek.

He arched his eyebrows in shock. Was she really going to say…?

"You'll never lose me, Gabriel," she whispered softly, her thumb rubbing against his stubble. He waited patiently, intently, loving his name on her lips. She gave nothing away, and he refused to read her mind. Suddenly, her expression turned even more melancholic than before. "But, that's only because you can't experience true loss...not until you love something more than you love yourself."

Sylar finally closed his eyes. Of course, it was too good to be true.

She sighed. "You don't love me."

Her statement wasn't vicious or vindictive; it wasn't full of acid or hate. It just…was. And, it still hurt like hell.

He gently grabbed her wrist and pushed her hands away, letting go of both. Sylar couldn't be sure if she was right or wrong, but now he simply felt embarrassed like a child being scolded. It was his turn to avoid her gaze and stare at the ground.

Claire watched him for a while, and then, without a word, she left him alone to his thoughts.

* * *

Sunlight. Strong arms. A beating heart.

A baby's laugh. Rain. A house in the woods.

She saw it all, saw the future. Or the past.

And, she longed for it.

* * *

Night came before Sylar returned to their tent, more confused and torn than ever. When he entered, Claire was already lying on the pillows, still in her clothes, seemingly asleep. He made his way over to the wall to sleep in the dirt.

"You can sleep next to me."

He froze, stunned. "You're sure."

Her voice was groggy. "Yeah, just get over here."

He could see in the darkness as she made room for him. He respectfully kept his shirt and boxers on, and he tried to keep a safe distance between their bodies, but he could hear her scoff as she rolled back over, knocking into his chest. He awkwardly avoided touching her with his hands; it was rather comical.

"Put your arms around me," she ordered, nuzzling into the fabric of his shirt.

He did as he was told, wiggling his arm under her head and resting hand on her hip. His nose naturally inhaled her scent, and he sighed in contentment. However, he couldn't help but wonder, "Why?"

He could hear the strain in her voice, her own internal struggle of right and wrong. "I just…I need someone…Just tonight…I just need _someone_."

A slight smile graced his lips, and he closed his eyes.

"Okay."

And, together, they fell asleep.


End file.
